


How You Remind Me

by buckydeservedmorepassiton (bexwastaken)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Sexual Content, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-09-19 23:06:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17010897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexwastaken/pseuds/buckydeservedmorepassiton
Summary: "After an especially gruesome assault, Bucky Barnes is so traumatized that he pushes away everyone close to him. After initially clashing with the victim, NYPD policeman Steve Rogers dedicates his time and effort to finding the assailant, even going as far as risking his career."(TW): This fic will contain references to and graphic depictions of both sexual assault and the stages of recovery after having experienced it.





	1. Is this how you'll remember me?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> This fic will probably be slow to update for the first couple chapters. Sorry! I'm a college student out here with a statistics final to cram for. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy these few skimpy uploads! :D
> 
> Everything is written in alternating perspectives, either Bucky's or Steve's, but it should be clear as soon as it shifts. 
> 
> Three stars {***} indicate a continuation in the same person's perspective, while a solid line {━} indicates a shift from one person's perspective to the other's.
> 
> All feedback is welcomed! I love hearing from you guys!

_9:13 am_

It must have been his fault.

Somewhere inside, _deep_ inside it seemed, his rationality screamed that it wasn’t—that it _couldn’t_ be—but that voice was too small, too far away to change his mind.

It _must_ have been his fault. He must have provoked them.

_Him,_ his mind reminds him. It was a _him_.He’s long gone now, and has been for quite some time, but Bucky can’t bring himself to move. He could still feel the heft of the body that had been atop his, the vile taste of the salt and blood that was on his skin. His vision is distorted; it had been since he’d gotten here, wherever _here_ was.

He’d been grabbed somewhere, maybe when he was getting leaving the bar?  James couldn’t remember. He’d only woken up to a pair of hands undressing him.

He couldn’t help the heave his body forced up at the memory, so he did his best to lean forward and vomit as far away as possible from his naked body. He must have done something. Walked too close behind, stared a second or two too long at the wrong person. Slowly, he fixes his eyes down between his legs, and reaches a hand down to confirm his suspicions—a mix a blood and semen coats his fingers.

A sob creeps up his throat but doesn’t come out—it gets stuck there, amidst the taste of blood and bile. _I’ve got to get out of here_ , he thinks, but the moment he sits up, a searing pain in his chest shoves him back down to his elbows.The room spins around him, and the last thing he hears, before blacking out against the old splintered floor, is the soft pitter-patter of paws.

 

━━━━━━━━

 

_9:45 am_

“Get your ass in the car, Rogers!” Detective Carter calls out to her partner, who's exiting the Dunkin’ Donuts. He stalks up to their cruiser, a cup-holder with two large coffees in one hand, and a bag of pastries in the other.

“What?” He jokes, taking the bag between his teeth to fish for the keys in his front pocket. “’S’not like someone's muggin’ little old ladies in Brooklyn Heights,”

“No,” she reaches over and opens his door for him, “We’re going to Bedstuy. Potential 10-44. Just got called in.”

Steve settles into the driver’s seat with a deep, drawn-out sigh. They’d _just_ gotten a chance to stop for coffee. “Let me guess? No units between us and Bedstuy?”

Peggy grins, “You really shouldn’t have fucked with Nick.”

“Yeah,” He rolls his eyes and throws the cruiser in reverse. “That’s like four calls since six this morning. All this runnin’ up and down—what are we, recruits again? Remind me not to get on the chief’s shit-list _ever_ again.”

Peggy chuckles, and radios in, letting command know they’re on their way.

 

***

 

_10:21 am_

By the time they arrive, Agent Coulson is already at the scene, arguing with a tall blonde woman.

“Coulson?” Steve scoffs, “Why’d they bother to call us out if he’s already here?”

“I don’t know.” Peggy shoves her half-eaten donut into the glove box, before squinting up at the two.

Steve grumbles something about their drive being unnecessary under his breath, before saying, “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Oh for the love of—” Peggy grumbles, but before Steve can ask her what it was about, she’s hopped out of the cruiser and is approaching the pair. He can’t do much else but follow.

As soon as he’s in listening distance, he hear’s Coulson’s bureaucratic tone.“—I understand, believe me I do, but I can’t hand the reigns over to you yet, Sharon—”

_Sharon—_ that name was familiar, but Steve couldn’t place exactly where from. His best guess is that it’s probably a scribble of a signature he’d seen on paperwork somewhere—that’s how he seemed to recognize most people these days.

“It’s Special Agent Carter.” She corrects Phil, and turns her attention to Peggy, “Margret. Good to see you.”

“Sharon.” Peggy quips, and takes a glance at the two. “My partner, Lieutenant Steven Rogers.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Ma’am.” Steve says, and extends his hand.

“We’ve met.” She looks him square in the face, and states the words. They come off with an air of disrespect, but Steve doesn’t take it that way. Instead, he returns his hand to his pocket and stands back, meeting her glare.

“Have we?” He gives her a small smile, “You’ll have to excuse me, Special Agent Carter, but I don’t ever forget a face I’ve worked with.”

“Figures,” She returns the little smile, “I’m afraid we didn’t meet in the field.”

Peggy’s eyes snapped to Steve’s face, which he’s unable to get a _stupid,_ dazed look off of. That’s right. He didn’t recognize her face, because he hadn’t paid any _attention_ to her face when he’d met her.

Steve has a horrible tendency of dating— _dating, if you could even call it that—_ _all_ the wrong people in New York City. There was not one one-night-stand he’d had that hadn’t turned around to bite him in the ass—Sharon Carter was just another tally mark in the game God was playing with him. The score now reads Steve-0, Bad Decisions-500,001.

Thank _God_ Peggy had more gumption than Steve, taking the conversation by it’s balls, “What's SVU doing here? This guy fit an MO of y’all’s?”

“No,” Sharon sighs, and returns her gaze to Coulson, “ _but_ it is a sexual assault case, it needs to be handled properly.”

Both Coulson and Peggy moved to reply, but it’s Steve’s voice that commands the attention. “And the fella’s at the 84th will give this case the discretion it needs, as they would with any other sensitive case. This isn’t our first rodeo.”

Sharon’s jaw tenses, “Look, Lieutenant—”

“Agent Carter, should my department decide the case is beyond our capability, you have my word that I’ll personally be the one to contact you. Until then, this is Bed-stuy’s case and my guys are running point on it.” The words came out fluidly, and with a curt nod he had completely dismissed Sharon Carter, and was walking towards the dilapidated building, Coulson and Peggy in tow.

Steve dips under the caution tape, and holds it up for Peggy to follow.

Coulson clears his throat, “So, uh, the victim was unresponsive when they’d gotten to him.”

“Him?” Steve asks, his eyebrows shooting up. He wasn’t _daft_ , he knew that men could be victims of sexual assault. What with Sharon’s enthusiasm to take the case, he assumed she’d been emotionally invested—and perhaps that was why she was. “What else?”

“Homeless man found him,” Coulson nods over at the man leaning on Coulson’s sedan. “Says he’d went into the house to get warm, but we found a bag of rocks on him.”

Steve’s head whips back around to Coulson. “ _That_ man?”

“He’s like…eighty?” Peggy whispers. “Can the human body even withstand crack at that age?”

“Nonetheless,” Coulson shrugs, “He found the kid. No clothes, no ID, nothing on him except a whole lot of blood.”

“Well, where is he?”

“An ambulance just took him to University Hospital.”


	2. Never coming home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm gonna do a thing with the chapter titles. Song lyrics? I don't know yet. Whatever it is, it'll be cheesy, I promise.
> 
> This chapter is completely in Bucky's POV.
> 
> xx

 

 

_9:55 am_

Bucky isn’t certain what order the next few events occurred in.

He remembers someone shaking him awake, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open long enough to really look at them. He’d heard a dog whining, and felt its wet nose against his side. Two pointed fingers pressed against his throat at one point, and some kind of cloth was thrown over his crotch.

The next thing he remembers is a set of very bright white lights, the piercing shrill of sirens, a plastic gas mask on his face, and a soft feminine voice asking if he was awake.

“Y-yes,” He croaks, but the voice isn’t his. It’s mangled and broken and wet, like he’d spoken with a mouthful of water. He realizes it isn’t water—it’s blood, his blood—and although his initial reaction is to panic, he can’t seem to gather up the energy necessary to do so.

“Okay sweetheart, I need you to relax for me, okay?” she says, and then starts talking to her partner above Bucky’s head, “His airway has collapsed, we need to intubate.”

There’s a rustling, and suddenly plastic pries Bucky’s lips open, and he immediately recoils. “No,”

“Honey, we need you to calm down,” She replies, then again, to her partner, “Push 200 of Propofol.”

Bucky doesn’t remember much else after the tube goes down his throat.

 

***

 

_11:36 am_

He wakes up feeling worse than before, if it were possible.

All of the adrenaline in his body was gone, leaving behind all the pain it was masking. His chest, his sides, his back, his legs—his _throat_. It all hurts so much that tears prick the corners of his eyes.

He closes them tight and tries to remember what had happened. He sees big hands coming at his throat and he gags— _not that far._ He didn’t need to think about that right now. He needs to figure out where the fuck he even _is_ first.

An ambulance— he’d been in an ambulance. He reaches his fingers to his lips. The tube they put down his throat is gone. His fingers are still bloody and dirty and he finds himself covered in a strange wave of disgust. He’s wearing a hospital gown, but he knew that he was still filthy beneath it.He reaches forward to touch the IV sticking out of his forearm, but the sudden movement makes his head spin. Just then, a woman dressed in blue scrubs walks in.

“Hi.” She whispers. “I’m Dr. Christine Palmer, and I’m running the ER today.”

“Hi,” Bucky croaks, and he doesn’t even recognize his own voice.

“You’re at University Hospital in Prospect Gardens.” She says, settling at the foot of the hospital bed. “Can you tell me your name?”

“James.” He coughs, “M’ name is James Barnes.”

Her voice is soft and Bucky can’t help but be soothed by it. “Okay James. Is there someone we can call for you?”

 

***

 

_11:53 am_

Bucky didn’t tell him that he’d been assaulted. He couldn’t get the words out. Their exchange was short and quick.

_‘Hey man, the fuck are you? You didn’t come home last night, and Nat’s losing her shit.’_

_‘Listen, Riley, I need you to pick me up. I’m at University Hospital.’ He’d said, trying his hardest to keep his voice strong._

_‘The hospital? What the hell, man? You get too fucked up and had to have your stomach pumped again?’_

_’No—please, Ry, just come get me. Bring me a change of clothes, too.’_

And so he did. Twenty minutes later, Bucky’s best friend Riley came rushing into his room, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, and his boyfriend a few paces behind. “What the _fuck_ happened to you?”

“S’ nothin’,” Bucky drawls, swiping the back of his hand across his nose. “You brought me some sweats?”

“Yeah,” Riley whispers, and after a moment of watching Bucky paw through the bag, he says, “Bucky, bro, I need you to start talking. What the fuck happened to your _neck_?”

Bucky couldn’t see it, but from what Dr. Palmer had explained, his windpipe had nearly been crushed. There must be visible bruising. That was just the top of his list of injuries. He’d broken two ribs.Having his chest pushed into the floorboards had bruised his sternum and collarbones. He needed stitches in places he didn’t even want to think about and— _Riley was talking._

“Bucky—buddy—hey, who did this to you?”

Bucky furrows his eyebrows, “I, uh.I don’t know. I didn’t see his face.”

“Jesus,” Ry sits at the foot of the bed. He moves to set his hand on Bucky’s leg, but at the last second pulls away, afraid to touch him. “Have they collected evidence?”

Bucky clears his throat, “No, I’m not gonna bother with it—I just want to go home.”

Sam finally speaks, both Bucky and Riley look over at him, as if they’d forgotten he was there. “Whoa, James, you gotta let them take a kit.”

“This is New York City—the odds of catching this guy are like one in a million, Sammy. I just want to go home and,” he inhales sharply, gesturing to himself, “ _clean off_.”

“Bucky, listen to me,” Riley comes closer. “You’re in shock, okay? If you change your mind, you don’t have to go to the police, just let them collect what they need to. Don’t take the option away from yourself, you might regret it later.”

“I’m not going to change my mind, Ry.” Bucky barks, “You weren’t there, okay?”

“I wasn’t there, I know,” Riley dips his head, almost as if he were feeling guilty, and Bucky immediately regrets his words. “Please, James. I’ll be here with you the entire time, alright?”

Tears were forming in his best friend’s eyes—tears that _he_ put there—and he couldn’t help himself. “Fine. Get the nurse.”

 


	3. When you were here before

 

 

The victim had just woken up not too long ago, and was having a rape kit collected. There wasn’t much for Steve and Peggy to do except wait for the procedure to be completed. So they stood around the nurses’ station, watching the medical staff glare at them as they walked by.

One particularly angry nurse made no attempt to hide her scowl as she walked past them. “What is with these people?” Steve grumbles to himself, “We don’t look like cops, we aren’t even in uniform.”

Peggy rolls her eyes. Steve was always socially naive. “Yes, you do, Steve.” She gestures to his outfit. “That shirt? With those slacks and tie? It just screams ' _don’t make eye contact with me, I’m a cop'.”_

Steve scoffs, and leans on the counter. “Say, how did you know Sharon back there?”

Peggy looks away for a moment, and when she looks back at him, her eyebrows are raised, the way they are when she’s been cornered. “Special Agent Carter is my niece.”

Steve chokes on his now-cold coffee. “Your what?”

“My niece.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Whom it seems you’ve had sex with.”

Steve scoffs, “Yeah, _once_ ,” but the look on Peggy’s face makes him backtrack, “Not that I’d only sleep with your niece once—oh _God,_ that’s _worse_ —we just wouldn’t have worked out, y’know?”

“Stop,” She tuts, “ _Please_ , just stop.”

He opens his mouth to say something else, but snaps it shut, not able to think of anything any less offensive than what he'd already admitted to. Tension lingers between the two of them, and Steve almost yelped out loud when she continued speaking.

“My sisters a lot older than me.” She explains, simply. “She was already an adult when I came along. She had Sharon a few years after our mother had me.”

“Oh.” Steve purses his lips, “Listen, I’m sorry if that, or— _us_ —makes you uncomfortable—“

“No,” She cuts him off, “Just you talking about it.”

“Gotcha.” he mumbles, “I just hope things don’t get weird now.”

“No,” She pats his shoulder, “Only if you make it weird.”

“Good.”

Silence covers them again, until Peggy pops her lips and asks, “Well, uh, just one question then.”

Steve glances down at her, all wide eyes and immaculate red lipstick, “Mhm?”

“You find Sharon attractive—or at least at some point did—enough to sleep with her.” She says, all-too-loudly for Steve’s tastes.

“Y-yes.” He nods, “She’s a beautiful gal.”

“Yes—well, growing up—since we’re basically the same age—people always thought we were twins.” She wrings her hands together like she’s nervous, but her posture doesn’t sag.

“Oh god,” He closes his eyes, “Peggy, no, it’s not like that.”

“Steve, we have the same _face_.” She whispers, angrily. “Same face! She’s blonde, I’m not. That’s the only difference.”

“Peggy, I told you. This—us,” he gestures between them, “This is different. _This_ is a line we can’t cross.”

The SANE nurse steps out of the victim’s room, with the rape kit, but instead of handing it off to them, she heads down the hall, presumably to store it. Which could only mean that he’d chosen not to make an official report.

“Shit.” Peggy curses under her breath, and another nurse walks by, giving her a dirty look.

 

 ━━━━━━━━

 

They did not tell Bucky that rape kits were _that_ invasive.

He’d had cotton swabs on every inch of his body, hair collected from his head _and_ his crotch, and had been asked to spit his weight into a fucking sample jar. If another human being spoke to him before he could collect the shards of his dignity together, he’d probably lose his mind.

Of course, that’s precisely when the policemen decided to come into his room.

Riley introduced himself to one of them, but with his body curled up and facing away from the door, Bucky didn’t see them come in.

“I’m Lieutenant Rogers, this is my partner Detective Carter. We’re here to help.” One of them says, his voice commanding the room’s attention. The other one, a feminine voice introduces herself to Riley, and shakes his hand.

“I’m not filing a report.” Bucky says, still not facing them.

“Pardon?” The lieutenant asks.

Bucky slowly turns over to them. “ _I said_ I’m not filing a report.”

Riley sighs, “Bucky, we talked about this,”

“Yeah, we did, and I told you I’m not fillin’ no _fuckin_ ’ report.” Bucky snaps, pressing the nurse button on his bed frame. Riley new better than to push Bucky when he got into one of these moods _regularly,_ much less after he’d been through something this traumatic, so he falls silent. “I just want to get the fuck outta here.”

“Are you sure? That you don’t want to report it?” The lieutenant asks, and Bucky props himself up to get a good look at him. He’s tall, much taller than he thought he’d be, with sandy blond hair and bright blue eyes.

“Yeah.” Bucky swallows. “I’m sure.”

A flicker of something Bucky can’t read flashes across the Lieutenant’s face. Could have been pity. Or annoyance. “Alright then. Looks like we’re done here.”

His partner looked more sympathetic, “Listen, If you change your mind—”

“Th’ Man says he’s not filing a report, Carter. Let’s leave him be.” He interrupts, and stalks to the door, “Gentlemen,”

Bucky watches the female officer slip her card into Riley’s hand before excusing herself.

 

***

 

_1:57 pm_

The car-ride was painfully quiet. Sam had to go to work at the veteran’s clinic, so it was up to Riley to drive him home.

Despite the fact that at the hospital they’d cleaned him up and given him some medication to fight infection and combat pain, he felt as though something were wrong. He supposes that from now on he would always feel like something were wrong, but kept redirecting his eyes to the white line on the side of the road, desperate to keep his mind focused on something. If he didn’t, it slipped back into memories of the attack, being pinned down, hands around his neck or grasping at his hair and— _Riley was talking again._

“Buck?” He asks, finally snapping in front of his face to get his attention.

“Yeah? Sorry,”

“Oh, man.” Ry shivers, “See that? I don’t like that. I can’t have you spacing out like that Bucky, I don’t like that shit at all.”

“No, I’m fine.” Bucky forces a smile.

“No, you aren’t.” He says quietly. Not knowing how to break it lightly, he stumbles over the words “Nat's still at the apartment.”

“What? She didn’t go in to work?”

“Bucky, you didn’t come home last night—no, she didn’t.” He clears his throat. “And it’s a good thing, you’ll need someone to take care of you for a few days.”

Bucky scoffs, “Ry, I’m fine. I don’t need a keeper.” _Maybe he did,_ he thinks, but he didn’t want one right _now_. He wanted to crawl into his bed and lay there for a few hours, maybe cry, maybe scream. He couldn’t do either with Natasha at home.

“Well, too bad, you’re gonna have one.”

“Not if she doesn’t know.” The car stops at the red light, and Riley shoots him the most incredulous look.

“You aren’t going to tell her?”

“Not if I can help it.” Bucky says slowly, “And I’d appreciate it if _you_ didn’t either.”

“Natasha. You plan to keep something this serious from her?” Ry says seriously.

“Ry, tell me you’ll be quiet.”

“She’s going to find out.”

“ _Ry_ , promise me.”

The car falls silent, but Bucky stares at him until,

“Fine.” He concedes, “I won’t tell her.”

“Good.”

After a few moments of tense silence, Riley blurts, “But won’t she piece it together?”

“What, she’ll get one good look at me and know some fuckwad almost killed me?” Bucky snaps back.

Riley swallows. “I—I don’t mean to— _upset_ you, but—yes?”

Bucky closes his eyes together, tight enough to hurt just a little bit, and sighs. “Then that’s what I tell her.”

“The truth?”

“No,” Bucky groans, “I got jumped, or mugged, _whatever_.”

“ _Bucky_ ,”

“Damn it, Ry, just let me handle it, okay?” He shouts, and Riley goes silent. “If she asks, just tell her it was a bar fight. A couple guys ganged up on me.”

“Got it, Buck.” He nods, focusing on the road. “I got it.”


	4. When it comes it's so, so, disappointing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a short chapter here!
> 
> Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> xx

_2:13 pm._

“I’m going to _fucking_ kill you.” Natasha yelled as soon as Bucky and Riley made it through the threshold of the apartment. She stormed towards him as if she were, indeed, going to kill one of them, but instead engulfs Bucky in a huge hug, sniffling into the crook of his neck.

Bucky immediately yelped in pain, and she let go of him quicker than if he were made of hot coals. “ _What_? What’s wrong with you?”

Bucky clears his throat and grits his teeth, trying his best to gain some composure. Thankfully, Riley steps in. “Your idiot roommate got in a bar fight.”

“A bar fight?” She asks, eyeing him suspiciously. She gasps, but doesn’t hesitate to reach out and skim a pale slender finger along the bruises on his neck. “Holy _shit,_ James.”

“Yeah,” he croaks, “They fucked me up pretty good.”

“They?” She furrows her brows, “They jumped you?”

“Yeah.” He nods, and makes his way further into the apartment. He drops the duffle bag onto their leather couch, and snatches Nat’s open bottle of water from the coffee table.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going? You’ve gotta do some more explaining.” She says, perching her hands on her hips. “Who the fuck were these guys? Do we know ‘em? What bar were you at? Was it Weasel's?”

“Oh come on, Nat.” He snaps, “I got the ever-loving _fuck_ beaten out of me by complete strangers. Could you just _fuck_ off for a few hours and let me get my pride in order? Jesus Christ.”

“Alright.” She nods, but Bucky didn't wait for her approval, he disappears down the hallway, towards his bedroom. Once she hears his door click shut, she spins around to face Riley, her fiery wild red curls smacking her dead in her face. “ _You_. Tell me what happened. _Now._ ”

Riley swallows, glancing between the pair of deadly green eyes narrowed at him, and the hallway Bucky was on the other side of. He swallows again. Natasha knows that he’s is at the _very_ bottom of the list of good liars, and she’d torture it out of him if she had to.

But she senses his fear, and her face grows concerned. “Is it that bad?” She asks, quietly.

He nods.

“Did he ask you not to tell me?”

He nods again.

She inhales, and looks down at the floor before nodding. “Alright. Fine. He’ll tell me when he’s ready.”

“Just—keep an eye on him?” He whispers. “Give him space—but not too much. I’m worried.”

“Yeah.” she nods again, and tosses a glance over her shoulder, the floorboards had stopped creaking, so he was in bed now. “Me too.”

 

 ━━━━━━━━

 

_12:13 am_

Steve quite literally couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. He’d been re-reading the same line of Peggy’s report for the past half-hour.

They’d both been awake for almost 24 hours, having left the station late last night, and then immediately starting their ordered patrol at four this morning. Peggy, however, was three Americanos in, and was running like a well-oiled machine.

She sticks her head into his office and asks, “You sign off on the report for earlier today? I’ve got a few more so I’ll take 'em all up to the Chief now.”

“Yeah.” Steve says, suppressing a yawn. He actually _hadn’t_ read the report, but it was Peggy, who he knows did more than a great job with it. So, he flips it to the last page and scribbles his signature.

“You didn’t read it?” She asks, glaring at him.

“Nope,” He says, through the yawn this time. “What for? The kid isn’t filing a report anyway, that’s ten pages of _‘we did nothing valuable today’.”_

Peggy rolls her eyes.

“Well-written, and much more eloquently presented than _‘we did nothing valuable today’_ , I’m sure, but more or less.” He smiles, which she returns.

He immediately recalls their conversation earlier at the hospital, and it seems that Peggy does too, because they both lose their smiles as quickly as they came.

Thankfully, Officer Dugan peaks his head through the open door and whistles, “Whole bullpen's going out for drinks tonight, you two in?”

The two answer simultaneously, Steve with a clear _‘No,’_ and Peggy with a clear ‘ _Yes_ ’. Steve glances up at her. “You’ve been awake for over a day—and you’re scheduled to come in tomorrow morning, at eight.”

“And? I’m awake right now, and I’ll be awake then.” She says, glancing over at him. Collecting her documents to be delivered, she adds, “Plus, I could use a _fuckin_ ’ drink.”

Dugan makes way for Peggy to dip out and head up to the Chief’s office, and nods at Steve. “Still not coming, Cap?”

He grabs his coat from its spot on the back of his chair, “And let you bastards get Peggy drunk? Someone’s gotta keep you pigs in check.”

Dugan chuckles, and turns to head out, but Steve calls out to him so he replies, “Yea, boss?”

“Quit callin’ me cap.” He nods curtly. “That was a lifetime ago.”


	5. Disappointed people, clinging on to bottles

 

_1:05 am_

Bucky waited until Natasha had left the apartment before getting dressed for his shift at the bar.

He didn’t want to just lay there. He didn’t want to sleep. He didn’t want to be alone—but he also didn’t want to talk about last night. As much as the spot on his bed called out for him, he couldn’t indulge it. So he got dressed—a black turtleneck, to cover the bruises on his neck—and went in to work.

Weasel wasn’t there when he showed up, because, well, he’d earned the nickname  _Weasel_ for a reason. So Bucky opened the bar himself around four in the afternoon, and slowly but surely the regulars started trickling in.

Mr. Logan, the dark and broody type, claimed his spot at the end of the bar, where he could clearly see the exits. Bucky didn’t question it anymore—plus, he wasn’t sure he’d like the explanation for Mr. Logan’s hyper-vigilance. So, he bangs out a whiskey sour, his usual, and sets it down in front of him.

“Nice shirt.” Logan says quietly, gazing up at him.

“Thanks.” Bucky whispers, but Logan’s eyes were trained on the patch of skin where the black wool met bruised skin. Bucky yanks the collar up and clears his throat. “Holler for me if you need another one, man.”

At the other end of the bar, a couple of buddies were chatting each-other up, having a rather loud conversation about their time apart. One of them gestures wildly, sending his martini glass over the bar.

“Oh, geez!” He gasps, “I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t worry about it.” Bucky offers a small smile, and collects the glass shards in a dishrag. He’s wiping down the counter when he hears the bell on the front door chime.

In waltzes a group of New York’s finest. A few of them look beat down and tired, and a few look ready to fuckin’ party. Bucky _really_ hopes they wait until _after_ they leave the bar to have their party. He _really_ doesn’t want to have to chase chatty drunks out of the bar with his baseball bat again. A little part of him holds his breath and hopes for it. He ignores it.

But then, Bucky’s heart stops. The lieutenant from earlier—Rogers, Steve Rogers— walks in with his comrades, and so does the partner—the Carter lady.

They all make their way to the bar and one man, with a strange, greying handlebar mustache, orders a round of beers for the group, on him.

The lieutenant and his partner don’t seem to notice him, but Bucky lets his hair down just for good measure.

“You guys celebrating tonight?” Bucky asks the mustached man, only making small talk because he was standing _directly_ in front of them as they watched him use the tap to fill _twelve_ pint glasses with beer.

“Yeah, another week working under _this_ asshole.” He quips, pointing at Lieutenant Rogers, and the entire group laughs.

Bucky smiles politely, finishing off the last round and setting it on the counter. He nods at the officers, telling them to enjoy their drinks, but when he glances up, the lieutenant is staring directly at him.

He swallows, and averts his eyes. By some grace, he hears the double beep of the alarm system, signaling Weasel’s return through the service entrance. He undoes his apron and sets it behind the counter, before heading back to find Weasel.

“Hey,” Bucky says, watching Weasel struggle to carry two cases of beer stacked atop one another.

“ _‘Hey’_ your fuckin’ self, get your big ass over here and help me, asshole.” 

Bucky tries his best to lift one of them without giving himself away, but he couldn’t hide the little whimper of relief that escaped him when he set the case down. 

“No _shit_ , so she wasn’t just lying to cover your ass.” Weasel gapes at him, and uses two fingers to push his huge, round-rimmed glasses up. “Well how the _fuck_ did you manage to get yourself jumped? You’re like nineteen fuckin’ feet tall.”

“Why’s Nat goin’ around telling people my business?” He groans, running a hand through his hair.

“Uh, maybe because you didn’t show up to the tattoo shop today? And she wasn’t sure if you’d make it here, either.”

‘Right.” Bucky nods. “Well, there’s folks at the bar.” He says, and decides to return to the bar before Weasel could get another jab in.

 

 ━━━━━━━━

 

Steve settles in at the bar, a few seats down from his fellow officers. Peggy didn’t seem to notice the kid, but Steve did. He’s a hell of a lot taller than Steve assumed he was—then again, he’d only seen him curled up, half-dead in a hospital bed.

At first, he wasn’t sure that it was him—but when he returns from the cellar, Steve is certain.

What on _earth_ was he doing back at work so soon?

Steve makes a little gesture with his pint glass, and he slowly makes his way over.

“Yessir?” He asks, clearing a dishrag into the bin. “Another one?”

“No, thanks.” Steve says, “I’ll have a whiskey. Straight, please.”

He nods curtly, before reaching for a bottle of Johnny Walker from the shelf behind him. Steve takes a moment to observe him.

He’s so much bigger than he to be seemed earlier. Easily six feet tall, 185. Whoever took him down must have been fuckin’ _huge_. Steve watches as he uncorks the bottle and reaches for a short glass to pour it into. His hair falls into his eyes slightly, but Steve can still see that they’re a vivid gray, settled in thick brown lashes. Steve’s eyes travel to his neck—he’d seen the bruises earlier, but for some reason, seeing them peak out from under a black turtleneck makes them that much more terrifying.

“Anything else for ya?” He murmurs, setting the fresh drink down in front of Steve.

“Yeah,” Steve whispers, leaning forward, just over the bar. “Sorry, man, what’s your name?”

“James,” He says quietly, not once diverting his eyes from Steve’s.

“That’s right—“ Steve’s memory clicks, “And that guy, he called you Bucky.”

“Friends call me Bucky.” He says, setting his hands on the bar. “You call me James.”

“Right. James.” Steve doesn’t hide the flicker of disappointment that crosses his face. He frowns and drops his voice down low, so only James could hear him, “Listen, man, I know you’ll want things to go back to normal as soon as possible, but you’ve got to take it easy.”

James scoffs, “Yeah, thanks for that, chief.”

“I’m just sayin’,” Steve says, unwilling to let the conversation end so sharply. “Maybe it’s better for you to take things slow.”

James’ eyes darken. He leans drops his elbows down on the bar, and Steve can’t tell if it’s just casual, or if his arms couldn’t support his weight anymore. “Tell me, Lieutenant, why do you think you know what’s better for me?”

His voice is considerably louder than Steve’s, and a few of the bar’s patrons turn to listen, including some of his squadron.

“I’ve seen this kind of thing happen to people—good people,” Steve says quietly, suddenly feeling really intimidated but those piercing gray eyes. “Doesn’t matter how strong you think you are, it’ll catch up to you.”

Steve watches intently for the next few seconds. James’ strong jaw tenses, his eyes glass over—Steve couldn’t tell if it were out of fear or anger—and his nose flares.

With a quick snap of his wrist, James splashes Steve’s whiskey in his face. Steve closes his eyes, trying to regain his eyesight, but hears James snap the glass unto the bar top. “Mind yours, okay, _Lieutenant_?”

When he does blink the bourbon out of his eyes, he sees James ball up the dishrag that was on his shoulder and toss it onto the bar, before calling out to his partner, _“Cover me, asshole. I can’t deal with this shit tonight.”_

“Whoa, what the _fuck_ , Rogers? What’d you say to him?” Dugan asks.

Steve curses under his breath, and hops to his feet, chasing after James. _He overstepped and needs to apologize._ However, when he gets to the street, he doesn’t see which way James turned. Instead, he’s met by an empty sidewalk, bare of anything besides the sickly orange light of a streetlamp, and the smell of bourbon sticking to his skin.

“Fuck,” He murmurs to himself, and heads back into the bar. All eyes are trained on him, from the reds of his irritated eyes to the honey-colored liquid staining his white shirt.

“Boss, everything alright?” Rumlow asks, and Steve just nods and raises a hand.

“Yeah,” He snatches his coat from the stool and tips back the trace of whiskey that was left in the glass. “Told ya’ll I should have taken my ass home.”

“Steve?” Peggy soft voice makes him look up. Her face is filled with concern—but alcohol has given her a little glint in her eyes that Steve is in no mood to deal with right now.

“I’m goin’ home, fellas.” Steve announces to his team. “Dugan, you’ll get Peggy home safe or I’ll castrate you.”

“S’ that a threat, Lieutenant?” Dougan chides.

“No, that’s a promise.” Steve calls from the doorway.

That night in bed, Steve tries his best to fall asleep, but steely gray eyes haunt him.

 


	6. I'm a puppet on a string

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this update is coming kinda early, only because I'm slightly obsessed with this fic. I literally can't keep myself from adding bits to my notes, so heres an update, a week earlier than I expected to post!
> 
> I think from now on, updates will come out on Sundays, 9pm EST. 
> 
> This chapter will be completely in Steve's POV, and although its kinda short, the next few chapters should compensate! 
> 
> xx

 

Steve jolts awake the following morning, panting through what physically felt like it had been a nightmare. His body is covered in a sheen of stress-sweat, his fists clenching his sheets, his teeth gritted together.

Except it hadn’t been a nightmare—it hadn’t even really been a dream. It was just snapshots of another person—another _man_ , he realizes—chocolate brown hair and eyelashes, soft round pink lips, bright gray eyes.

He presses his eyes shut with the realization. The _last_ thing Steve should be thinking about is James—at least not like _that_.

Almost on cue, Daisy hops up onto the bed, pressing her head into Steve’s neck.

“Mornin’ girl.” Steve says, patting the giant retriever on the top of her head. “Wanna walk?”

He didn’t even get to pet her again before she hopped off of the bed and sat herself beside his bedroom door.

“Fine,” He hums, shoving on a pair of sweatpants. “Let’s go.”

 

***

 

“Hey mister,” Steve hears, and stops short, turning around to see where the voice came from.

A little old man is crouched down on the ground, surrounded by old newspapers and other pieces of what seemed to Steve to be junk.

“How’s the kid?” He asks, after Steve doesn’t respond to him. It takes him a moment to figure it out, but he realizes that this was the same man from the crime scene yesterday. “Is he gonna be alright?”

“He wasn’t very cooperative with us.” Steve huffs. The old man’s dog, a mangy little thing, spins around in a circle before plopping down beside him. It growls, so Steve tightens his hold on Daisy’s leash.

“Sorry man, she’s just hungry.” The homeless man apologizes, touching her head, which seems to soothe her.

“Yeah.” Steve frowns, reaching into his pocket and fishing out his wallet. He gives the man a twenty, and the dog almost bites his hand off for approaching her owner.

“Thanks,” The man nods, “So, what’re you guys gonna do about the kid I found?”

Steve sighs, a little peeved. “There isn’t anything we can do, unless he comes forward officially. He doesn’t look like he has the balls to do it.”

The homeless man scoffs, narrowing his eyes at him. After a moment, he speaks,

“Listen—I’ve been out here for a long time. I’ve seen some fucked-up stuff. But I have never seen _anything_ as bad as that. Poor kid was covered head to toe in his own blood.” He grumbles, “If you and the good ol’ NYPD can sleep at night knowing some sick fuck did that to him and is still out there, then I don’t want your fuckin’ money, man.”

The man sits up and reaches out, tucking the twenty dollar bill back into Steve’s pocket.

Steve stands there for a moment, utterly disgusted with himself. The man was right—he’s not sure why he didn’t realize it for himself. It wasn’t James’ anger that landed that drink in his face, it was his own insensitivity. He was being a bad cop—and an even _worse_ human being.

Steve fishes the bill out of his pocket and drops it into the man’s cup, which read ‘ _Homeless since ’09’_

 

***

 

“You want to tell me why I couldn’t just send Scott down here for this?” Tony asks, swinging Steve’s office door open.

“Come in,” Steve ignores his question, and begins clearing his desk, “Shut the door behind you.”

Tony purses his lips, “We don’t ever talk in private unless it’s serious. What’s going on, Rogers?”

“I’m cashin’ in all my chips.” Steve says, laying his hands flat on his desk. “I need a favor, a big one.”

Tony narrows his eyes, “I’m listening.”

“I’m coming to you because I trust you—and I know you’ll do the right thing.” Steve says quietly.

“O…kay?” Tony drawls out, and snatches his phone from his pocket to check the time, “Listen Rogers, you got five minutes before I belong to Chief Fury, so can we speed this up a bit?”

Steve sighs. He supposes there’s no reason to beat around the bush. Tony would either help him, or he’d have to get it done some other way. “I need you to get me access to some evidence.”

Tony laughs, “You’re serious? Steve, what kind of evidence do I have access to that you don’t?”

“It’s not in lockup.” Steve shakes his head. “It’s a rape kit, still at the hospital.”

Tony cocks his head to the side, “Still at the hospital _because_?”

“Because the vic didn’t file an official report.”

Tony’s index finger goes up. “Exactly what I thought—Steve, are you fuckin _’_ nuts?”

“Tony, I _need_ to see what they’ve got. I need to see the nurse’s event report—I gotta put the monster responsible for hurtin’ this guy _away_ , and I can’t do that unless I get a look at what went down.”

“Oh,” Tony sighs, “So this is one of your hunches. Well, you don’t need me to explain what happens if—and this is a big _fuckin_ ’ if, Steve— if I get you this kit. You’re fuckin’ with the evidence. If you ever want to nail this guy you’ll need that kit, and if anyone finds out you got your hands on it—”

“It’ll get it thrown out—yeah Tony, I know.”

“Y’know?” he leans back in the armchair across from Steve’s desk and crosses his arms. “Because you’re not actin’ like you know. You’re acting like you’re crazy. You’re distracted. This vic—this _case_ you’re making’ up in your head—it sounds like it’s too close to you.”

Steve sighs, and runs his palm over his jaw. Tony was his best bet, if Steve was being completely honest with himself. As a matter of fact, this wasn’t the first time that Steve had to come to Tony Stark and ask him to do something a little less than legal.

Tony was the head of the forensics division at the 84th precinct—and even this job’s prestige was below him. The man was brilliant—an MIT graduate slated to inherit his father’s multi-million dollar weapons company. Tony had settled himself into a cozy government job a couple years ago to wait out a scandal plaguing his family, but, needless to say, got a little comfortable here.

Tony frowns, and leans forward, a tuft of fluffy dark hair tumbling into his face, and Steve can see the concern etched into his face. “Come on, is it someone you know?”

Steve sighs again, “Look, Tony, are you gonna help me or not?” 

“I’m gonna help you, Rogers. Only ‘cause I know you’re trying to do the right thing. Get me the patient’s information and I’ll get it done.”

 

***

 

Midday, Tony returns to Steve’s office, just as Steve tore into his lunch. He walks in, much slower than his normal _I’ve-got-shit-to-do_ pace, and clicks the door shut.

“Tony,” Steve says by way of a greeting, “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon—”

Steve trails off, because Tony didn’t speak, he just turned to the glass window overlooking the bullpen, and shuts the blinds.

Tony takes a deep breath and says quietly, “Look, I don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into, Steve.”

“What do you mean?”

“This—this is insane.” Tony says, and Steve, puzzled, furrows his eyebrows at the perplexed look on his friend’s face.

“Tony, talk to me,”

“ _This_.” Tony says, tossing a manila envelope down on his desk.

Steve glances between it and Tony, and for the first time in his career, wonders if he’s up for this. Slowly, Steve opens it. There’s a smaller envelope inside, of photographs he assumes, but Steve first pulls out the SANE nurse’s report. He skims it.

Across the top, in bold, ‘ _Forensic Medical Report: Acute Adult Sexual Assault Examination’_. Then, ‘ _Name of Patient : James Buchanan Barnes’._ Both his and Peggy’s names are under the ‘ _Responding Officer:’_ box. He flips the page over.

Steve had seen these reports time and time again, but he’d never quite grasped the severity of it—just how invasive the questions were. ‘ _Loss of memory?’; ‘Lapse of consciousness?’; ‘Vomiting?’; ’Non-Genital Injury, Pain, or Bleeding?’;_ and _‘Anal-Genital Injury, Pain, or Bleeding?’._ To Steve’s horror, to all six questions, the _yes_ box had been ticked off.

On the next page, even more horrors awaited. Steve couldn’t read them all. He felt as though a rock had been dropped in his stomach, keeping him weighed down in his seat, unbelieving that another person was capable of such cruelty. Certain lines stuck out to him, but ‘ _Oral and anal penetration’,_ and the _’Did ejaculation occur?’_ sections and all of the marked locations made him swallow bile and flip the page over.

There, the findings of the nurse’s physical examination were illustrated on diagrams. That’s where Steve lost his composure, and the few bites of his lunch came up violently.

Tony glares up at him, “What the fuck is this, Steve? Who does something like this?”

“I don’t know?” Steve whispers, tossing his sandwich into the trash. He reaches over gingerly, and takes the photographs into his hands.

Steve doesn’t remember James having tattoos, but he supposes that the two times he’s seen him, most of him was covered up. In the pictures, however, Steve can see the intricate designs inked into his skin. Roses and leaves, and landscapes and animals, they were all there, butsmudged and covered with grime.

One photo was of the clear handprints that marred his otherwise smooth, pale column of a throat. Another was the bruising around his ribs, where the report indicated he’d broken two and bruised three. His entire chest was covered in scratches and superficial cuts, some look like slices taken with a knife, some like fingernails had scraped over the skin repeatedly, and others like rug burn. 

“How long do I have these?” Steve asks, looking up at Tony, whose face looks dejected and rightly horrified.

Tony sighs, rubbing his hand over his face, disrupting his intricate goatee. “Long as it takes you to catch that son of bitch.”


	7. Hysterical and useless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! A few updates before the chapter:
> 
> I originally planned to update once a week, but as it is, I've got a whole bunch of chapters lined up and ready to be posted once they're beta'd. So, I'm changing the upload schedule: Wednesdays and Sundays at 9pm EST.
> 
> I love reading the comments! Leave me literally anything, I'd be stoked to read about any prompts or suggestions for this fic or others you'd like to see from me!
> 
> I'm taking suggestions for future fics! If there's something you'd like to see written in my writing style, let me know!
> 
> xx

Bucky didn’t sleep since storming out of the bar.He couldn’t. The hours went by slowly. His stomach growled, and to appease it, he drank half of a bottle of Tennessee whiskey. He hadn’t left the confines of his room, not when Nat had knocked, or when she’d started banging, nor when she tried to kick the door down.

Last night, he did everything that preludes going to bed, but sleep wouldn’t come to him. Instead, he laid on top of his sheets, never quite feeling comfortable, and stared at the window. He could recall everything that had happened since he first laid down. The pack of street dogs tore into the bins in the back alley around four. The neighbor upstairs got home from his night shift around five. Nat let Clint in around six.

There was a thick fog of revulsion covering him, he refused to even get under his blankets—irrationally, he knows—but it was because he didn’t feel _clean_ , and he always hated getting in bed without having a shower first. When he realized that the sun was up, peering through his east-facing windows, he followed the rays to where they landed on his skin. Tattoos covered his arm and chest, but he couldn’t pay attention to them—he could only see the smudges of soot and blood that had covered them before, even though they were long-gone.

Strangely, Bucky finds himself wondering if Lieutenant Rogers had any tattoos. He doesn’t know why his mind landed there, but he doesn’t have the energy to redirect it anymore. He should call the station and apologize to him. Bucky dealt with drunkards and homophobes down at Weasel’s all the time, but there was something in Lieutenant Roger’s eyes that set him off—something about the genuine concern twinkling in his eyes and laced through his words that made him really, _really_ angry.

Two solid knocks sound on his door, before Clint’s voice sounds off. “Wake up, Bucky-boy. You’re double booked today since you were out playing hooky yesterday. Come on!”

Slowly, Bucky slides out of the bed. He hates thinking that something so mundane—going to work—is what finally gets him out of bed, but he can’t lay there anymore, he might lose his mind if he does.

He groans. There’s a dull thudding at his temples in time with Clint’s knocking, but he persists. “I’m comin’, just let me get dressed.”

 

***

 

His station at the tattoo parlor is clean and prepped, just how he’d left it. Domino, one of their artists and the resident receptionist, let him know that his first client of the day was in already in his chair.

It was a simple tattoo, since they’d worked on the design over a few sessions. Today, Bucky was only finishing off a tiny bit of shading and doing final hard-lines.

Bucky sat down to begin with his client, beyond grateful that this one was not much of a talker. Some people think his bench is a therapist’s chaise, where they could vent about anything from work to relationships. Normally, Bucky’s too nice and gently parries them, but somehow he knows he’s not capable of that today.

The session lasted just over an hour, and somehow, his mind managed to be completely blank the entire time. The dull hum of the needles seemed to calm him down, way more than he could have ever imagined they would.

Just as he finishes up with bandages and spray-seal, Clint sticks his head in and asks to see him for a moment. So, he snaps off his gloves and walks his client out to Domino, who greets him with a big, lopsided smile.

Bucky follows Clint to the storage room, where Clint reaches for fresh stencils. “Listen, I need you to take a new client for me.”

Bucky sighs, “Clint, man, y’know I’m not taking new people anymore.”

“Yeah, I also know that I covered your ass yesterday.” Clint says, dropping the box of transfer papers down on the bench for dramatic effect, “So I think you owe me _one_ newbie. Look, his designs are all done, it’s just some lettering left, I believe.”

“Yeah, okay.” Bucky nods, and turns to leave. His back cries out at the sudden twist, but he bites his tongue to keep quiet.

“Nat, uh, told me about the fight.” Clint says, amidst the shuffling of the papers being shoved back into the box. “Looks like you got your ass handed to you.”

Bucky grits his teeth. “Yeah.”

Clint begins to say something else, but Bucky leaves before he can hear it. Probably best for Clint, anyway.

He approaches the counter again, and Domino whips around to greet him again. “Hey Buck-o,”

Bucky can’t help but smile at her blind optimism. It’s strangely refreshing. “Hey, Dom. Listen, could you get Clint’s next client’s sketches for me? And take him back to my bench?”

“Sure,” she chirps, and Bucky dips through the packed waiting room, heading out front for a smoke.

The sun is hot, much hotter than Bucky thinks it should be in mid-November. He tugs at the neck of his turtleneck, and pats his pockets looking for his pack of Marlboros. Instead of the familiar carton, he pats through empty pockets at bruised thighs. He groans.

“Hey!” Bucky hears, and spins around to see Clint through the shops glass, tapping his watch. His eyes shift, and instead he sees his reflection layered over Clint’s face. His eyes look sunken in with blue-ish bags under them.

“Yoo-hoo?” Clint says, swinging the door open, “Dude, you’ve got someone in your chair!”

“Yeah, of course,” Bucky swallows and swiftly steps in with Clint. The people in the waiting room all give him funny looks, but Bucky can’t be bothered with paying attention to that. He had to buck up, he had a tattoo to complete, one he had no idea as to what it even was—which meant he needed to be lucid enough to talk to the client before he could whip out needles.

“You alright man?” Clint asks, his hand lingering on Bucky’s arm in a way that made him shiver.

“Yeah.” Bucky shrugs out of the grasp, and heads to his chair.

The man in the chair was not the sort of client Bucky normally took. He hated judging people by their appearances—for God’s sake, he was a six-foot-tall tattooed man, with shoulder length, perpetually-greasy hair— but living in New York City meant he sometimes had to, for his own sake. Being the shop’s only queer male artist, he made it a habit not to take clients that _looked_ as if they bashed fags as a pastime. This guy looked as if he made it to the fag-bashing regional championships.

“Hey man,” Bucky says, extending his hand and getting a firm shake from the client, “I’m Bucky, I’m gonna be taking over for Clint today. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve got in mind?”

“It’s nothing big, just somethin’ to fill a gap on my sleeve.”

“Cool,” Bucky nods, “Why don’t we take a look?”

The man, built big and stocky, takes his shirt off over his head, revealing a chest full of tattoos, one of which is a little decal of the confederate flag, which makes Bucky narrow his eyes. The shop had a zero-tolerance rule about neonazi ink, they neither inked them, or served people with them. The very second one of the artists spots a swaztika on a client, either Clint or Wade kicks them out. Bucky keeps his eyes peeled for one, but as promised, he has a partially-completed sleeve. He points to the spot where today’s ink would be going, but Bucky almost passed out when he rolled his stool to get a closer look.

The _smell_ coming off of the man shot a spike of fear down his spine and concretes him to his spot. It’s not a completely offensive smell on its own, but it isn’t pleasant—its a mix of cheap antiperspirant and sweat, layered with cheap cologne that makes Bucky think of a middle school hallway.

But that isn’t what sends his headfirst into this panic attack.

It’s why he recognizes the smell.

He knows he’s at his bench, with a client in front of him. He knows he’s making a scene, but his breath is stuck in his throat and his mind takes him somewhere else. Back to that house in Bedstuy, back to that old, splintered floor, where he’d smelled it before, amongst the smells of rotting wood and sex.

“Hey, man?” He hears the client ask, “Are you alright?”

Bucky feels his hand come down on his shoulder, and immediately smacks it away, with way too much force, “ _Don’t fuckin’ touch me_.”

Clint hears Bucky’s yell, and rushes over, grabbing him by his shoulders, and yanking him away before the client could react negatively. In good time too, because Bucky barely had enough time to grab the trashcan and hurl into it. Nothing comes up, because his stomach is still empty—but he feels his injuries more than he had before.

He doesn’t know when he’d stood up, or when he’d rushed out of the parlor, but the next thing he knew, he was standing outside of the building, hyperventilating. 

Clint rushes out behind him, “What the fuck, Barnes?”

Bucky doesn’t look at him. He bends over, and slides his fingers into his hair, against his scalp, and tries to get control of his breathing.

“What the _fuck_ , are you alright?” Clint gasps, setting a hand on his back to steady him. Bucky slides out from under it. “Whoa, okay! Okay, I won’t touch you, man.”

Bucky’s vision is cloudy, but his breaths calm down to the point that he isn’t panting anymore, and he leans against the wall for support.

“Hey,” Clint whispers, “What th’ hell is going on?”

“You gotta cigarette?” Bucky croaks, sliding down to the ground, propping his back up against the wall.

“Yeah, yeah man.” Clint fumbles through his pockets but produces a box of sticks. “You gotta tell me what that was, Buck,”

“Just give me a _fuckin’_ cigarette, Clint.” Bucky barks, and Clint tosses the box at him.

With shaky hands, Bucky gets one out, and Clint holds a lighter down for him to light it. After a couple drags, Bucky begins feeling better.

Bucky knows it’s a stretch—a hell of a stretch—but he’s tired and can’t be bothered to make anything else up. “I think its food poisoning. Bad breakfast.”

Clint doesn’t even look _momentarily_ convinced. He folds his arms across his chest, “Bucky, I _watched_ you skip breakfast this morning.”

Bucky closes his eyes tight and almost snaps the cigarette in half. “Bodega.”

“Which one?”

“Fuck off.” He mumbles, setting the cigarette between his lips and letting his head fall back and thud gently against the concrete wall.

 


	8. Somethings gotta give

 

Bucky couldn’t bear going back into the parlor, so he went to the bar, instead. Unbelievably, Weasel was there—and _doing work_ , too.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Weasel asks, shoving his glasses up.

“I work here?” Bucky grumbles, and drops down onto the futon. The back office was _really_ more of a drywall box they’d erected in the storeroom and put a desk in. Thanks to Weasel, it’s even smaller than it could be, because the fucker had littered every surface with stacks of invoices he refuses to discard.

“Yeah, you also have a day job.”Weasel glares.

“No more clients for the day. I thought I’d come in early, see if there was anything else I could help with.”

That doesn’t sit well with him, but Weasel never shies away from putting Bucky to work. “Well, you could get the storeroom in order. I almost killed myself this morning, tripping over a fuckin’ case of Miller Lite.”

Bucky snorts, “Alright. I’ll do that. Anything else, boss?”

“Yeah, actually.” He sets his pen down and clasps his hands together, leaning over the desk, “That guy, you threw a drink in his face last night. Who was he?”

Bucky groans—he should have just gotten up and got to stacking boxes of Miller Lite. “Does it matter?”

“Well, kinda.” Weasel murmurs, “Considering I had to work the bar after you left—you know I’m no good at that shit, I’m pretty sure I gave a few people alcohol poisoning.”

“He’s just some cop.” Bucky says as nonchalantly as he can. “Came at me wrong, so I doused him in bourbon.”

“People come at you wrong all the time—they’re usually drunk, _sure_ —but what’d he say to piss you off like that?”

“Don’t worry about it, Jack.” Bucky sighs, “I’m just, I’m goin’ through something, okay? He’s just some asshole cop who got under my skin.”

“Just some cop,” He mumbles under his breath, “ _Sure_ , just do me a solid and keep your boyfriends in check? I don't need the entire bar knowing when you breakup with your guys.”

Bucky nods. _Huh._ Of all the conclusions Weasel could come to about Steve Rogers, _boyfriend_ is by far the funniest. Weasel seems to be content with that version of things, so Bucky doesn’t challenge it. Plus, Steve Rogers could be worse things than an ex-boyfriend.

 

 ━━━━━━━━

 

_5:45 pm_

“Yeah? No, that’s perfect, I’ll send someone over to pick them up.” Steve says into the phone, striking through _Bedstuy_ on his list. “No, don’t send it. I want the hard copy. That’s it. Thank you.”

Just then, someone slides another report through the slot in his door, and the little basket catches it. _Another fuckin’ report to read_. And what would it be? A break-in, where nothing was taken. Or a noise discrepancy, kids playing video games too loudly.

He sighs, and stalks over to it, snatching it up. Noise discrepancy it was. Settling back into his desk, he scribbles his signature on the last page and sets it in his outgoing box, to be picked up later. Directing his attention back to his case, he sighs. The Bedstuy precinct is being more than cooperative, that is, as much as they could be. No report was filed, so they could only give him access to other rape cases in their area. There weren’t many, and none of them were nearly as violent as James’,but Steve would comb through them later and see if he could piece together an MO.

His door swings open, but he doesn’t look up. No one came in without knocking except Peggy and Tony, and considering he’s seen Tony twice today,

“You’re hiding something.” Peggy says, matter-of-factly.

Steve sits back in his chair. “Am I?”

“Yes,” She nods, and Steve’s eyes linger on her lips, her signature red lipstick is wearing in the center, like it does after her morning coffee. _Shit. Her morning coffee._ “You didn’t bring me a coffee this morning.”

“Shit, Pegs, I’m sorry.” He mumbles, “I just got a little busy—”

“You didn’t bring me a coffee this morning, which means you’re avoiding me. You only avoid me when you’re hiding something, because you’re a _shit_ liar.”

“Peggy—”

“I don’t care that you had sex with my niece, Steven.” She huffs, and they both glance at the officer in the hallway who drops his stack of papers at Peggy’s announcement.

“ _Jesus_ —Peggy, shut the door.”

She does, just as the recruit gathers his prints. “I don’t. I don’t care that you boned Sharon. I care that she’s getting in-between me and my partner. So you need to _suck it up_ and talk to me, like a man.”

Steve clicks his tongue, glancing out his window towards the rest of the bullpen. A few newer officers are still looking up at his office, but the seasoned ones have returned to their work.

“Peggy, I promise, I just forgot about coffee this morning.”

She folds her arms and stares at him, which he takes as a cue to keep talking.

“I-I started looking into James Barnes’ assault.”

“You _what_?” She gasps, glancing between him and his desk, “Steve are you crazy? Do you know what’ll happen to you—”

“Yes, yes.” He nods. “Pegs, it’s bad. It’s _so_ much worse than I thought.”

“Steven.” She says, commanding his attention. Her eyes are pleading, “Don’t do this. I know you, you’re gonna let this consume you—”

Steve snatches the photos from their little white envelope and drops them on the desk for her to see. “Two broken ribs, three bruised ones. He has _bite marks_ on his genitals. The fucker choked him so hard he almost crushed his windpipe and killed him. This could have been a murder—we could have pulled up to this guy in a body bag, Pegs. How am I supposed to just sit around when I know someone capable of _this,_ ” he gestures to the photos, “is in the city?”

Peggy uses a slender, manicured finger to slide the photos around, cringing at the worst of them.

After a long moment, she clears her throat. “Coulson got called out this morning to Fort Greene. Another 10-44.”

“What?” he whispers, “I didn’t—”

“Tony was in here when Coulson left.” She whispers, “You wouldn’t have seen them.”

“Well I need to head over there—“

“No.” She shakes her head.

“What? _Peggy—“_

 _“_ Steve, you’re already too involved in this. Just,” she inhales sharply, “Keep working on what you’ve got, and wait for Coulson’s report. If you barge over there and demand to know everything it won’t look good. And I’m pretty sure that you didn’t just have Tony _ask_ for those pictures.”

He licks his lips, frustrated. “Fine, yeah.”

She nods, and heads to the door.

“Are you gonna stop me from doing this?” Steve asks, straight up, watching as Peggy’s hand slide off of the door handle.

“No.” She huffs.

“Are you going to help me, then?”

“No.” She says clearly. “Not unless the kid comes forward officially and you’re going through the right channels—and not just Tony with a lock pick. It’s too dangerous.”

Steve just nods, unable to voice his disappointment, and is forced to just watch her leave his office.

 


	9. You're just like an angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello!
> 
> Chapter 9 & 10 for you dolls!
> 
> This chapter gets a bit intense towards the end, so be warned! 
> 
> ((TW: This fic, especially this chapter, will make references to a sexual assault, in this instance it's the victims way of venting, in others it may be used to explain the way they cope with the assault. It is NOT present for its sexual content.))
> 
> But the next chapter will be some well-deserved fluff! Hope you guys are enjoying this fic as much as I'm enjoying writing it! I love hearing from you in the comments, it always makes my day! 
> 
> xx
> 
> (Song of the chapter/title: Creep x Radiohead)

 

The precinct thins out around ten, and Steve finds himself leaving last, just after midnight. He could walk straight home, like he always does. Just a few blocks south and he’d be there. He could shrug out of his stuffy work clothes and into some sweats, take Daisy for an evening walk, feel the cold fall breeze on his face. But he doesn’t.

It’s almost automatic, how his legs take him to the bar Bucky works at. Stupidly, he knows, because what are the odds he’s working two nights in a row? Especially after last night?

But, he makes it. The bell above the door chimes, and almost everyone in the bar looks over at him.

A tall man at the end of the bar perks up—and Steve is sure he’d seen him there yesterday too.

“Oh no you don’t!” A wily voice comes from behind the bar. A man with curly blondish hair and thick-rimmed glasses points at him accusingly, “Not again, fuck-wit!”

“Pardon?” Steve manages, before he hears the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being loaded.

“Get th’ fuck outta here,” The barkeep yells, brandishing what seemed to be, to Steve’s immediate chagrin, a sawed-off shotgun.

“Hey,” Steve barks, his years of training jumping out and taking him where his brain couldn’t. “Calm down, man. I’m just here to see James.”

“And what makes you think he wants to see you?” The man says back, but a rustle from behind him distracts them both, and James peeks his head out.

“Weasel, what th’ hell is goin’ on out here?” He asks, and when he spies Steve, his jaw clicks. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I just want to talk to you, James—I wanna apologize.”

“I don’t want your apology.” James crosses his arms across his chest.

“Here that?” The smaller man, ‘Weasel’ it seems, cocks the shot gun.

“ _Hey_ ,” Steve barks again, and immediately flashes his badge, “D’you wanna spend the night in jail for threatening an officer?”

Weasel seems to recoil at that, and lowers the gun—only a few inches. “What’d’ya want me to do, Buck? I’ll shoot him.”

James— _Bucky_ , Steve tries the name in his head, it moves much smoother across his mind than _James_ does—takes the gun from Weasel and replaces it under the bar, “I’m not gonna let you go to prison for maiming a cop, Jack.”

“Thank you.” Steve nods.

James approaches him, and Steve holds his breath, watching him stalk up. Dark hair frames his face; a dark navy, wool turtleneck clings to his body; the bright glow of his eyes seems dulled, and it makes Steve shudder. “Y’got ten minutes, Lieutenant. Then, I gotta get back to work.”

 

***

 

They sat down at one of the booths, but before Steve could get his apology out, Bucky starts talking in a low voice.

“Listen, man. I didn’t file a report for a reason,” He clasps his hands together and releases them, “I don’t remember anything that could help you. Don’t remember his face, his voice, _nothing_. I can’t even tell you how I got to Bedstuy.”

“Hey,” Steve whispers, reaching out to touch Bucky’s wrist. “That’s not why I’m here.”

Bucky meets his eyes with a look of confusion, and Steve’s stomach does a flip.

He never trips on his words, but Bucky’s strangely commanding presence throws him off his game. “I-I came to apologize to you. I spoke out of turn last night—I just—“ he takes a breath, “You shouldn’t push yourself too much. It’s none of my business, I know—”

“It’s not.” Bucky cuts him off, pressing his lips into a tight line. “I’ll deal with this how I think I should.”

Steve begins to protest, but just shuts his mouth and nods. “Right.”

Bucky sits back again the leather back of the booth and nods at Steve, “So, what’s next for you guys?”

Steve sighs, “I’m afraid there isn’t much we can do without an official report. We can’t even look at the kit from the hospital—and we can’t do anything without seeing the evidence.”

Bucky leans in close and shakes his head, a little motion, but Steve could see the intimidation in it. “I-I can’t do that.”

Steve nods, “I understand,” He touches Bucky’s hand, and he isn’t sure why he thought he’d recoil— but he doesn’t, he looks up at Steve with so much fear that it makes Steve swallow. “I know it’s hard. It’s so fuckin’ hard, James, but you gotta help me put this motherfucker away—before he hurts someone else.” 

Bucky closes his eyes, tight, and Steve watches intently. He mumbles, “ _I don’t know_.”

“This guy, he’s not the kind of guy to just strike once. James, let’s make damn sure you’re the only person he does this to.

“I-I don’t know.” Bucky mumbles again, sitting back in the booth and taking his face into his palms with a groan, “I don’t know, Steve.”

Steve didn’t want to, but he was out of cards to play, so he does. “If someone had come forward before you, we could’ve gotten this bastard. Don’t you want to stop this sick fuck from hurting someone else?”

Bucky’s hands drop, slowly. The look on his face changes in an instant, suddenly hostile. Steve slowly realizes what he’d asked, but it’s too late, Bucky had already heard it—the gravity of it had already hit him—that he would somehow be responsible for it, if the rapist strikes again.

 

 ━━━━━━━━

 

 ****“You don’t think I fuckin’ know that?” Bucky snaps, and the patrons seated at the bar all look over at him. _There it is again._ Its nonsense, he knows this, but he thinks that he can feel the adrenaline pumping through him, making him feel angrier by the second.

He watches as Steve’s face pales. “T-that’s not what I meant—”

“I don’t give a _fuck_ what you meant.” Bucky spits the words out. “You got some fuckin’ nerve—y’said you came down here to apologize, then the you want to blame me if this fucker hurts someone else?”

“James—,”

“ _No_ ,” Bucky yells, gaining Weasel’s attention now. “You ever had somethin’ like this happen to _you_ , Lieutenant?”

“No,”

“He _raped_ me, Steve.” He says, “You can say it—that’s what it was. He held me down and _raped_ me.”

“ _James,_ ”

“He broke two of my fuckin’ ribs, and I’ve got _stitches_ holding me together right now.” He barks, yanking down the neck of his sweater. “Almost fuckin’ _snapped my neck_ and killed me—all without anyone hearing or seeing him, _not even me._ ”

Bucky realizes he’s yelling, that the half of the bar that wasn’t drunk would remember what he’d said, that from here on out, every time they saw his face they’d know what had happened to him. It wasn’t embarrassment that cloaked him in guilt and made his eyes water—it was shame. Shame that he’d let this happen to him, that he didn’t fight back, that he’d allowed himself to become a victim.

“You naive enough to think this is the first time he’s done something like this?” Bucky narrows his eyes at him, “If the guy before me, or the guy before him had come forward, would that have really saved me?”

He doesn’t know why, but he feels better—monumentally better—although Steve’s bewildered expression dampens his high just the slightest.

“James, I—I’m sorry.” Steve croaks, and its broken and quaking, but Bucky doesn’t reply, “I don’t want you to think this is your fault—because it isn’t, _fuck,_ I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking when I said that. What do you need? I’ll do anything—“

Neither Bucky nor Steve saw Weasel approaching them, but suddenly he was at the booth, “What the fuck, Bucky? Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have let you come in if I knew you’d—“

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Bucky groans, his catching his face in his palms again, “Are you both really this _dense_? Stop acting like I’m some fucking flower or something—“

Weasel talks over him, folding his arms across his chest “But Bucky, this is serious shit—“

“I know! I’m completely aware.” Bucky barks, glaring at the two of them. Then, he realizes, “Weasel I _swear to God,_ if you open your mouth to Natasha, I’ll fuckin’ kill you—”

“Why wouldn’t you want your friends to help you? That’s what we’re for?”

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” Bucky repeats, deathly serious.

“I’ll take my chances with you, then.” Weasel says, heading back to the bar. “If she finds out that I didn’t tell her, she’ll kill me too, but she’ll make it hurt more. I’m calling her to come get you—“

Bucky groans, dropping his head down to the table. _This,_ he thinks, _is exactly_ _what he wanted to avoid_. Everyone would tiptoe around him, and start treating him differently. Instead of seeing him as their pal—the guy that climbed a flagpole on a dare, and could bag a guy at the bar with just a pickup line—they’d see him as some broken shell of a thing they used to be friends with.

Was that really a life he wanted to live?

“You asked me what I needed.” Bucky says, looking up at Steve. His sandy blond hair looks darker in the shitty lighting of the bar, but his eyes are this impossible blue, giving him a strange tinge of hope deep down.

“Yes, anything.” Steve whispers, and Bucky almost melts—this man, who Bucky had done nothing but beguile, was still kind. For a moment, Bucky wishes he had such defined virtues, but he supposes he wouldn’t have much use for them anymore, anyways.

Bucky drops his head close to Steve’s, and says, “Get me out of here.”


	10. Slow animals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if this will go up with chapter nine, or if it'll go up later this week.
> 
> This is a little fluff, since the last upload was a little tough!
> 
> If it went up early, yay!! If not, I still hope you enjoy it, lol!
> 
> (Song of this chapter: Slow Animals x The Strokes)

 

Steve hadn’t known where else to take him.

 _“What about the Tillary?”_ Steve had asked, but Bucky crinkled up his nose and said no.

 _“‘Don’t want you spending money on me, man.”_ Steve doesn’t know why that banged through this chest like a bullet, but it did. Looking at Bucky, with his long arms shoved into his pockets,  the thought crosses his mind that he’d spend all his money on Bucky if it made him safe and happy, but he forced himself to regain control of his thoughts—what he _needed_ was to make sure he was safe _tonight_.

Steve realizes pretty soon that it wasn’t just him. Neither of them had thought this out completely, because when he brought him home to his brownstone, Steve saw it all over his face. A tight blush rising from his jaw, in the way he kept his hands tucked in his pockets and crossed his feet at the ankle—he was nervous.

“Right, so this is the kitchen,” he calls, dropping his keys in the bowl on the island, “That back there is the bathroom,”

“Nice place,” Bucky murmured, his eyes following the white-painted brick of the kitchen up to the giant, lofted office above the living room.

“Thank you,” Steve smiles, and reaches for the handle to his bedroom, “You mind dogs?” Bucky shakes his head no, so Steve opens his bedroom door, “This is the master bedroom, and _this_ is Daisy.”

Daisy doesn’t even bother stopping at Steve, she just bounds out of his bedroom and settles at Bucky’s feet, looking up as if he were regarding him.Bucky, in turn, squats down and scratches behind her ears.

“She’s beautiful.” Bucky’s deep voice saying something so soft makes a smile erupt on Steve’s face. “How old is she?”

“She’s uh—two, next month.” Steve nods, and gestures to the bedroom she’d come out of. “Anyway, this is the bedroom. I’ll grab some things and leave you some towels.”

“Whoa, Steve, I’m not putting you out of your bed, man.” Bucky complains, hopping up to his feet.

Steve’s already in the hall closet, fetching linens, “Tough luck, because I’m claiming the couch, and Daisy’ll sleep on the recliner.”

“I can’t make you sleep on the couch in your own home, Steve.”

“Hey man,” Steve shrugs, shoving the towels in Bucky’s arms. “You can sleep on the loveseat, but I’m sleeping on the couch.”

The both glance over at the ornate leather couch—it was beautiful, but looked like the _most_ uncomfortable thing to sit on, much less sleep on. They share a glance, and Steve’s smile makes Bucky fold the blanket over his forearm and nod.

 

***

 

Steve watches Bucky disappear into the master bathroom, and took himself into the hall bathroom to get ready for bed himself.

His reflection looked tired, more tired than he felt, but he supposes that dashing out of the bar hand-in-hand with Bucky had just gotten his adrenaline pumping.He looks down at his chest, marred over slightly on the left side. He lets his fingers ghost over the scars. The sound of Bucky shutting off the shower on the other side of the wall brings him out of his head and to the present.

Pulling his t-shirt on over his head, he flicks the light off and heads to the couch, made up nicely with all the blankets and pillows he kept up in the closet. He wouldn’t tell Bucky, but since the loft had such high ceilings it was difficult to heat his living room without the fireplace being lit. Since he’s rarely ever home to use it, he doesn’t have any firewood handy. He wouldn’t complain though—a few thick blankets would be enough to keep him warm.

Steve plugs his phone in on the end table just as Bucky appears in the doorway, wearing a pair of Steve’s pajamas. ”Hey,”

“Hey,” Steve replies, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” He smiles lightly, touching one palm to the elbow of the other arm, the way he’d done it earlier—it’s a cute little quirk, Steve thinks to himself. “I just wanted to say thank you. For tonight. I appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem, James.”

“Bucky.” He nods at Steve.

“Bucky.” Steve repeats the word, tasting the way it rolled off his tongue. It felt good. Right.

“Goodnight, Steve.”

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

 

***

 

Something wakes Steve up. He reaches over to turn off his alarm—more muscle memory than anything else, but his hand doesn’t connect with the flat surface of his phone. Instead, he smacks it on the corner of the coffee table, and the pain wakes him up immediately.

“ _Jesus—_ “ he murmurs to himself sleepily, before finding the culprit that had pulled him from the lull of sleep. Daisy.

She’s sitting right below where Steve’s head had just been, with the widest eyes—eyes Steve recognizes.

“What’s wrong girl?” Steve slurs, and realizes that he’d be talking to himself before reaching out to calm her down with a pet. She whimpers, and Steve immediately begins checking her limbs for injuries. “Are you okay?”

She hops when he prompts her to lift her back leg, but not out of pain—it seems rather, out of _annoyance_ —and begins trotting to the bedroom.

Steve’s heart sinks.

He hops up, making himself a little dizzy in the process, but follows her to the bedroom, where she hopped up on the bed and settles in front of James. He’s on his side, facing away from the door, but Steve can immediately see why Daisy was panicking. He’s twitching in his sleep—a nightmare, probably—silent tears trailing down his cheeks, fists clenching the sheets around him.

“Fuck,” Steve mumbles to himself. Daisy just looks up at him and settles her head closer to Bucky’s. He panics, slightly, wondering if he should wake him up— _he could really hurt himself in his sleep—_ or just let him sleep.

Steve finds himself slowly creeping around to the other side of the bed, to better see Bucky’s face, and almost wishes he hadn’t.

His face is screwed up in what looks like pain, his eyebrows sewn together in agitation. Steve doesn’t realize he’s slipping down into the bed until he’s done it, and has his hand in Bucky’s hair, gently smoothing it back.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Steve whispers, blinking sleepily at the other man. He watches the frown slip off of Bucky’s face, as he seems to shift into Steve’s palm.

He’s stopped shaking, released his grip on the sheets, and starts to snore lightly. Steve stirs, but Bucky leans up further, trapping his palm between his head and the pillow. Daisy glances up at them, and cocks her head to the side.

“This is your fault.” Steve whispers to her, but she just settles her head between them again.

He’d stay up—wait for Bucky to inevitably shift again in his sleep—slip his hand out, and return to the couch. Or so he thinks.

He falls asleep with his fingers still laced through Bucky’s hair, Daisy’s furry head settled in the crook of his elbow.

 

 ━━━━━━━━

 

It was a dream. It had to be.

Bucky’s eyes flutter open at the break of dawn. Warm golden light floods through tall windows, through the filter of sheer white curtains. It casts the entire room in panes of white light, and as his eyes focus on the foreground of his vision, he notices a giant fluff of golden hair— _Daisy_ , he remembers. Her fur tickles the skin of his jaw.

He stretches a little, feeling the heft of a palm on the top of his head, and his breath hitches in his throat.

Over the top of daisy’s head, he sees a long plane of a tanned arm, and lined up with her head he sees another tuft of blonde hair—a darker blonde. _Steve_. Steve, golden haired and snoring, at the very edge of the bed.

Oddly enough, he doesn’t panic.

 _He_ _should_ , he thinks to himself, but he couldn’t. Instead, he’s relieved.

He doesn’t know when his dreams went from being strangled to being held, but he isn’t going to question it. His arm feels heavy when he pulls it out from under Daisy’s head and reaches out to touch Steve’s face. He feels real—as if he’s there, pale skin and feather-soft hair. Bucky’s unable to see where Steve’s sandy blond hair ends and Daisy’s fur starts, but uses his fingertips to gauge, settling his hand in the tuft of blonde hair at the front of Steve’s head and letting his eyes flutter shut.

Sleep finds him again, but he’s perfectly content knowing that more of Steve’s angelic face awaited him.


	11. Rain keeps falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> Hope you all had a ~wonderful~ New Year's ! I'm getting geared up to head back to university, as I'm sure some of you all are, too. I'm grateful for those of you who take time to comment when you're enjoying my work, it means a lot and really does influence my writing! So here's to a year of prosperity, creativity, love, and good fortune! 
> 
> xx

 

This time when Steve wakes up, it's to Bucky stirring in the sheets beside him. It takes his eyes a minute to focus on the mop of wavy chocolate hair across from him, but the second they do, Steve scrambles out of the bed, managing to slide off and land on the floor, “Fuck,”

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice is croaky and still full of sleep, but Steve is wide awake now.

Steve’s rambling, but the dazed look on Bucky’s face makes him think he isn’t exactly absorbing his excuses. “I-I didn’t mean to stay here all night—it’s just, you were having a nightmare and Daisy was scared, so I came in to make sure you were okay. I would have woken you up but I didn’t want to freak you out.”

“Oh,” Bucky murmurs, plopping a heavy hand on Daisy’s head. He sniffs, and his expression changes quickly—he looks _mortified._ “I’m sorry, Steve, I didn’t mean to scare you—or Daisy.”

“No—you don’t need to apologize, Buck,” Steve shakes his head, but Bucky still looks upset. Steve watches as he runs his hand through his hair and sits up, pushing down the sheets around his hips. The henley Steve had leant him to sleep in is all crooked from the way he’d been laying, so half of the plane of his left pec is visible, with intricate tattoos blooming up towards his shoulder. The bruises on his body, especially those on his neck are yellowing now, a sign that they’re healing.

“Yeah, uh,” Bucky scrubs his face with his hand, “I should go then, hm?”

Steve’s heart skips a beat, _no, not yet._ “Ah, c’mon. At least let me feed you, man.”

Bucky sighs gently, and looks over at the clock on the wall, “Won’t that make you late?”

Steve follows Bucky’s gaze to the white clock above his dresser. _7:47_. “Shit!” He gasps, scrambling to his feet.

James’ laugh fills the room, a burst of a chuckle that spreads a wide smile on Steve’s lips. Bucky smiles, too, “I’ll get something to eat when I get home, I promise.” Then, after looking like he’d suddenly remembered, “ _After_ I apologize to my roommate… _fuck_ , she’s going to kill me.”

He knows its not his place to say anything—if anything, a drink in his face was a firm enough reminder to stay out of James' business—but when Steve sees Bucky’s frown, he reaches out and skims his fingers across his knuckles. With no re-affirming words to offer, he just gives Bucky a little smile, which he returns, all be it much sadder.

“So,” After a moment, Steve clears his throat, glancing up at the clock again, “Do you live near the station? I’ll give you a ride home.”

“Yeah—a few blocks south.” Bucky takes the hint, hopping out of the bed and trifling through his folded clothes.

“Good,” Steve huffs, shooing Daisy off the bed. She huffs, but trots out of the room with a little jingle of her tags.They both watch her leave with goofy little smiles on their faces, neither of them noticing the other.

 

 ━━━━━━━━

 

Bucky hated the fact that Steve was making him feel so much better—so much more like himself.

He was currently in the passenger’s seat of Steve’s sedan—luxury sedan, actually, complete with custom leather seats—gazing out the window. The conversation had lulled a while ago, but the silence that filled the car wasn’t bad, it was comfortable. Steve had put on a three piece suit today, an image that settled in the front of his mind like a sketch for an important client: Bucky obsessed over every little detail. Every line, every curve, every little piece brought him the strangest tinge of satisfaction—stupid, he knows. He has no claim on Lieutenant Steve Rogers, no matter how the brushes of his slender fingers and the long gazes from his baby blues made him feel as if he did.

He’s thrust back into the moment when he realizes Steve isn’t looking at the road, he’s glancing down at his phone, held low beside the bottom of the steering wheel. Steve watches Bucky’s eyes settle there, and leaps to defend himself. “We’re _crawling_ , Buck, I couldn’t hit anything if I tried.”

Steve is right—there’s an obnoxious amount of traffic between Steve’s apartment and the precinct. They’re basically at a stand-still, moving just a mere few feet in the past few minutes, but Bucky doesn’t focus on that, his mind settles on the way Steve had shortened his already-shortened nickname. He’d dropped the ‘y’, the way Clint or Nat do when they’re mad at him. He wonders momentarily if Steve made that a habit—shortening things for convenience. He’s a handsome, moderately-wealthy man. He has a prestiged, stable job, in of all places New York City. Women basically threw themselves at men like him. Yet, he’d brought Bucky home to an empty house with no sign of a partner, long-term or otherwise, anywhere within.

“Buck?” Steve questions, looking up at him, concern laced through his gaze. “Are you worried? Hey man, it’ll be okay, y’know? Just be honest with her, ask her to respect your boundaries. She’ll come around, I promise.”

Bucky furrows his eyebrows, confused. It takes him a moment to realize Steve had been mistaken. He hadn’t spent the last ten minutes worried about how Natasha would react to his truth, he’d spent it daydreaming about Steve’s past lovers—if there were any.

“I know.” He nods, choosing it were simpler to go on with Steve’s thinking. He gives himself one last culminating thought to the ‘Steve’s Lovers’ train: he imagines she’d be someone just like him—tall, blonde, and exceptionally kind.

Steve gets another message, his phone buzzing again. He glares down at it and frowns. “Looks like something came up. Y’mind walking home from the station? They need me right now.”

“No, of course.” Bucky nods, and Steve leans forward and hits a switch in the center console, which turns on the siren and the lights on the dash.

The sea of traffic parts, and they make it to the precinct in about twelve minutes. Bucky glances at his phone to see the time—to see just how late he’d made Steve—but he’s met with a dead screen. He doesn’t know why, but he feels sick stepping out of the car. As if this stability he’d gained from a night spent in Steve’s bed, with Steve's hands laced through his hair, would disappear as soon as Steve did.

Nonetheless, since they’d exchanged enough _‘thank you’_ s and _‘don’t mention it’_ s before they’d left Steve’s apartment, he starts down the sidewalk after giving Steve a small smile.

He barely makes it to the street-level door of the station before Steve’s calling his name and jogging up behind him. “Hey, Buck,”

“Yeah?”

“Um, take this, okay?” Steve whispers, pulling out his card and flipping it over. He scribbles his cell phone number on the back as well, “It’s got my number on it. Give me a call if—I don’t know—if anything changes, or you need someone to talk to, or you need help, okay? Any time, any day, I’ll be there.

Bucky nods slowly. He’s not sure if it’s Steve’s dopey, lopsided smile or the fact that he hadn’t eaten more than saltines in the last two days, but something is making him feel slightly woozy.

 

 ━━━━━━━━

 

Steve watches Bucky disappear down the sidewalk, and it’s early enough for the streets to be pretty empty, so he has a good look at him. His heart flutters a little, but he ignores it. Peggy had threatened his balls if he didn’t get himself to work as soon as humanely possible, so as soon as Bucky was out of sight, he turns on his heels and enters the precinct.

He never comes in through the street entrance because it was easier to swipe his badge and use the garage entrance. But when he did, he’d have to walk through the ten-cubicle long bullpen, pass officers he’d inevitably forgotten the names of, but would still be forced to greet. But he had no choice because the large glass front doors, he remembers once inside, are one-way glass, so the entire bullpen that had noticed him outside would know if he walked around just to avoid them.

So he walks through them, nodding _‘hello’_ s and _‘goodmorning’_ s where he felt necessary, but a little whisper catches his attention. Two officers, one male and one female are talking to each other in muted voices.

“I don’t know, maybe?” The male officer shrugs, “I don’t know, he doesn’t _look_ gay.”

The female officer sneers, and says, “Maybe bisexual?” then corrects herself, " _Hopefully_ bisexual." 

Steve grits his teeth. His exchange with Bucky, evidently visible from inside the building, could be taken out of context that way. Considering the unbelievable circumstances that made up the context, he’s not sure if it helps or hurts their conclusions.

_But it wasn’t like that,_ he finds himself thinking, but it doesn’t feel true.

He doesn’t like lying to anyone, least of all _himself,_ so he takes the thought, wraps it in all sticky feelings he has when he thinks about Bucky, and files it away. He’ll have an open and honest discussion with himself later—when he had time to really question things.

He’s only a few feet away from his office when Peggy approaches him, “Have you heard from Tony?” She asks, no greeting, no half-asssed ' _goodmorning'_ , just direct and concise. Peggy never _looked_ frenzied, but the way her eyes dart across his face makes her fear palpable.

“No, I just got here.” He says quietly, as two officers brush pass them, looking over their shoulders at him. He points at them, and glances between them and Peggy,“What is going on with _that,_ huh?”

“What?” Peggy glances in their direction, but not for long—definitely not long enough to see what Steve’s talking about—and continues speaking, “Listen, grab your gun and creds, and suit up, okay? They need us at Navy Yard.”

“What?” He narrows his eyes, “What th’fuck’s going on at Navy Yard?”

“I don’t know yet, Steve, I’m still here waiting on you.” She snaps, “Whatever it is, it’s not good. Tony’s asked for us specifically, so get your shit together, let’s go.”

 

 

 


	12. There’s a place off ocean avenue

 

That card in his pocket might as well be a suit of full armor, because when Bucky spots his apartment on Hicks Street, he doesn’t feel any of the fear he’d felt earlier.

Except, when he stalks up the stairs to the front door and shoves his hand in his pocket, only to find there aren’t any keys there, he’s less optimistic. He groans to himself. He’d taken the spare key they kept in the potted porch plant _last_ week and forgotten to put it back, and evidently left his set at the bar last night.

He knocks intermittently for about five minutes, but Nat doesn’t come to the door. She must have left for work already. He groans again, louder this time. He didn’t want to go all the way back to the bar just to fetch keys—he sure as shit didn’t want to face Weasel yet—and his phone was dead, so he couldn’t call Riley to let him in, either.

In a burst of spontaneity, he walks over to the window. It’s a little too high for the average person to get in through, so they didn’t really pay attention to whether they locked it or not. Sure enough, he pushes it up and it slides open. After a bit of a jump and a whole lot of pain from his abdomen, he crashes into the apartment, knocking over the little table Nat kept near the window.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” Nat gasps, almost falling off of the couch.

Bucky’s still on the floor, reeling from the pain his ribs were screaming in. “S-sorry,” he groans, trying to get to his hands and knees. He glances down at his chest, and sees it's bleeding—just a superficial cut—he’d broken a wine glass that had been on the table he landed on.“Shit,”

“Are you okay?” She pads over to him and asks, her voice deep but soft, the way it is when she first wakes up.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine, Nat.” He says, taking her hand and accepting her help up. “Did you stay up all night…waiting for me?”

“Well, yeah, you ass.” She folds her arms across her chest and glares, but her eyes are soft and unfocused, still buzzing with sleep. “Weasel came over here last night, freaking the fuck out. ‘Said you’d run off with some cop and—that’s not your shirt.” She says, ever-keen eyes settling on Steve’s torn white henley.

Panic settles in his gut. _So much for not being afraid of her._ “No it’s not. I spent the night with a friend—“

“Don’t you fucking lie to me, James.” She snaps, glaring up at him with now-beaming green eyes. She had always been a firecracker. Five feet tall with the attitude of someone _at least_ a foot taller, and the hands to match—she could hold her own in a fight with someone Bucky’s size, if she needed to. “Not you. Not about something this serious. You can do anything except fucking lie to me.”

He nods. _She already knew._ Weasel had kept his promise and told her last night. “Right.” He inhales sharply, looking at the couch beside her, unable to meet her eyes again. “What else did he tell you? Weasel, I mean.”

She opens her mouth to answer, but the words don’t come out. Bucky is grateful, kind of, because he’s not sure he wants to hear her say it, after all. A few tense seconds pass, and he allows himself to look at her. Her eyes are full of tears, but in some sick sort of joke, they waited until he was looking at her to fall. Her pale nose is pink, her eyes turning the same rosy hue to accompany her tears. Her hair is wild, frizzy, red bed-head frames her face sweetly, like a child fallen off their bike. Except there was no bike, just the trauma of a close friend.

She sniffs quietly and whispers, “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

His hands move before his mind does, cradling her head and pulling her tight against his chest. She sobs, and Bucky smoothes her hair, shushing. “It’s okay, Nat. I’ll be fine, okay? Don’t you worry about me.”

She sobs harder, and Bucky tightens his grip on his best friend.

 

***

 

Once he’d calmed her down, things went back to normal pretty quickly. She absolutely refused to let him go to the tattoo parlor for work, and instead forced him to sit on the couch. She resorted to becoming a sort of makeshift mom—the way she did when either he or Clint was sick.

She didn’t head into work at her patisserie shop either. Instead, she took a few panicked phone calls from her chefs about designs and obscure ingredients. _‘So what you’re telling me is that I hired a dimwit who can’t manage a lemon curd; because that’s what I’m hearing’_ she’d said into her phone, then apologized when that chef started crying. Bucky had just sat at the opposite end of the couch and sneered at her. She was so hot-tempered sometimes, but she has a weak spot for people getting emotional.

Just then, stood at the other side of the apartment, she works diligently on her third pastry of the morning. It's a cheesecake, Bucky thinks, from the spring-form pan she’d greased and set on the island.

“Here, taste this,” She appears in his peripheral, holding out a spoon. He doesn’t hesitate to take it—not even look at it—and set it in his mouth. Everything Natasha makes tastes amazing, and this was no exception. It’s a passionfruit cheesecake batter. Bucky normally complained that her forced taste-testing would someday give him salmonella, but today he did’t care. The spoon settles in his cheek, and he hums.

“Cheesecake?” He asks, waiting for confirmation.

“No,” She grins, “Creme pát. It’s going in cannolis.”

“Tastes like cheesecake.” He shrugs, but can’t help but admit his stomach growled appreciatively at the sound of ‘cannolis’.

“Tastes like cheesecake,” She pitches her voice deep and mocks his words, “Gimme’ my fuckin’ spoon back.”

He intentionally slurps it and then hands it to her. She snatches it and quickly knocks his knuckle with it. He gasps.“Ow, fuck,”

The TV interrupts them, the news cycle turning over again but being interrupted by a breaking story. Nat watches as Bucky’s face changes from playful to stern, and follows his eyes to the TV. The living room is completely quiet save for the reporter on the screen.

“An attempted sexual assault resulted in a stabbing early this morning, near Navy Yard. The victim is a nineteen-year-old male, whose name has not yet been released to the press as to respect his privacy. NYPD Detective Margret Carter informed reporters that the police force believes this incident to be one in a string of many aggravated assaults plaguing thenorthern Heights and Bedstuy area, and urges people in the area to be vigilant. The perpetrator, as police say, is targeting young men…”

“Bucky?” Nat asks, watching his breathing quicken, “Are you okay?”

Bucky doesn’t hear her, or the rest of the report. He can’t even focus on the reporter—he sees her, her black hair blowing in the winter breeze—but his eyes focus on the man in the background. His grey coat, unbuttoned, blows inthe wind coming off of the East River. His hands are tucked into his pockets, holding the coat back and exposing a full gray suit. An officer approaches him, and he turns to speak to them. He’s too far away to be certain, but Bucky can see his blonde hair. _Steve_.

 


	13. Let down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies!
> 
> Ah.. It's been too long! I had a bit of misfortune last week━ I managed to delete the ENTIRE 'How You Remind Me' document from my laptop! So everything I had prepared for this fic━character sketches, notes, drafted chapters, timelines━everything is gone. I've had to begin writing again with just what I've already already posted here on Ao3.
> 
> It'll take me a while to catch up, especially now that I'm back at uni, but I have every intention of continuing this fic, so stay tuned!
> 
> Here's the new update schedule I hope to follow: Sundays at 10pm EST for certain and maybe also on Wednesdays at the same time.
> 
> I hope everyone's had a brilliant start to the new year though, and that you enjoy this update, although it's tiny!
> 
> xx

 

The crime scene was further out of the way than Steve had expected it to be—it wasn’t the part of the yard most people found themselves in. It was away from the shops and warehouses, not even where the boats docked. This was the part of the yard where the new, fancy renovations had ceased, and the tattered docks hadn’t changed since the early 40s. Open to the East River at the north, salt spray hung in the air with every slap of the water against the old, sloped, concrete loading docks. It was all old, mossed-over, concrete wharf and graffiti.

It was also fucking freezing. Steve can’t deny that the chill he feels is due, in part, to the cold December air coming off of the East River, but the chaos of the crime scene is cold in a different, more clerical way.

Things are flying around him—literally and figuratively. Civilians crowd the police lines, birds are being shooed from their perches on the short docks, officers are buzzing back and forth trying to bag and tag evidence in forty-degree weather, and still maintain the chain of custody in the chaos. No one seems to be listening to Steve, and it is driving him a little crazy. He has to physically grab the next officer that passes by, by his collar and demand an explanation.

Rumlow, he realizes, is the unlucky soul. The officer fixes his collar and responds by urgently lifting the plastic bag in his hand. “Lieutenant, I’ve got to get this to the evidence van.”

“Yeah, you can do that after you tell me what the fuck is going on here.” Steve snaps. He lost Peggy in the commotion when they’d first arrived, and not having his partner is making him antsy.

“Uh,” Brock looks over his shoulder as if he were going to tell Steve a secret. “Its an uh, 261-A, Lieutenant.”

“Again? Where’s the suspect? I got a call from Tony, but he wasn’t making any sense—“

“Oh, yeah, Stark is as high as a kite right now. He punched Coulson.” Brock supplies, unable to prevent the little grin on the corner of his lips. “Yeah, he laid him out on the dock earlier. And as for the suspect—he ran off before Dugan and I got here.”

Steve glares at him. He’d gotten enough to let him run off with his evidence, but he pauses, running through the first bit of information again. Tony had punched Coulson. It doesn’t seem too out of place. He’s sure everyone wanted to punch Phil at one point or another, Tony just had fewer reservations about things like violence.

So, Steve nods, “Have you seen Carter?”

Rumlow knits his eyebrows together, and Steve can see it on his face—he’s confused that the lieutenant, of all people, is not already in the loop. “She’s probably in the ambulance, with Tony.”

Steve feels a pit open up in his stomach. “Well, what’s happened to Tony? I thought you said Coulson was who got hit?”

“Yeah. Well, nothing’s wrong with him,” he shrugs, “besides shock. They had to sedate him. The vic—it’s Tony’s intern, Parker.”

“Peter Parker is the victim?” Steve asks, bewildered. He pats Brock’s shoulder, a little harder than necessary, because why didn’t he lead with that, and sends him on his way, starting off towards the ambulances.

There, he finds Tony—his body at least. The person hunched over in the back of the rig is not Tony Stark. He lacked Tony’s ostentation, his flair. This person is dejected, his eyes downcast at the metal floor of the ambulance. Tony’s ever-perfect hair is floppy, hanging over into his eyes a little. Peggy is also there, with an arm around him, whispering something into his ear.

“It’s a shit-show out here,” Steve remarks, hopping up into the rig, across from Peggy and Tony. “What’s going on Pegs?“

“They took doped me up, Steve,” Tony says, but its slurred and soft—two things Tony never is. “Gonna be ok, they say.”

“What did they give you?” Steve says leaning forward and pushing Tony’s hair back, to see his face. His eyes are fuzzy and unfocused like he’s having a hard time seeing straight.

“Don’t know. I got a little angry.” He says quietly. “I might have hit someone.”

“That you did,” Steve replies, “It’s okay, I’m sure he had it coming.”

“Uh, Steve,” Peggy interrupts gently. “Would you head over to the other rig?”

Steve furrows his eyebrows at her, confused for a moment. Her glare forced the pieces to fall into place, and he’s got it by the time she can mouth ‘Peter.’

“Right, Peggy’s gonna take care of you, Buddy,” Steve nods and hops down.

“Yeah—meet us at the hospital?” Peggy sends him a warning glance—he recognizes it but doesn’t know what it’s for yet.

“Right behind you.” Steve nods at her and closes the doors in behind the paramedic.

Steve watches the rig head off before turning to the other one, parked just a few feet away. He knocks two solid times and it swings open. The paramedic offers a little ‘Lieutenant’ before hopping down. Peter is sitting opposite Steve when he settles on the metal bench. As Steve’s eyes settle on the boy, he’s a little surprised.

Peter, unlike Bucky was, is completely conscious, not even looking all that upset really. His clothes are tattered and he’s bruised, but he doesn’t look nearly broken as James had. “Lieutenant Rogers,” He offers his hand.

Steve takes it and shakes it gently, “Peter—how are you feeling?”

Peter shrugs, “Not terrible. Listen, like I told the other officer and Tony, I didn’t get to see his face, really. He, uh, grabbed me from behind.”

“Pete, man, I’m just checking on you. Did they look at you yet? No broken bones?“

Peter sighs, and nods, “Yeah. No broken bones. Just a little shaken up, I guess.” Steve nods, but freezes as Peter turns his head. His entire body goes rigid, his mouth dries instantly. A sickly sense of dread fills his gut, and Peter recoils from watching Steve’s expression change so starkly. “What? What is it?”

Steve reaches out a shaky hand and gently tilts Peter’s face to the side. Around Peter’s neck are two red marks, the fresh bloom of a bruise. He ghosts his fingers over the injury he’d seen half-healed on Bucky just that morning—the faded mark of a large handprint.

 

━━━━━━━━

 

At the hospital, Peggy had to restrain Steve. He hadn’t been violent, or a danger to anyone there, not really; he had just gotten himself into a headspace that she recognized as neither good for him or good for this case. She watched his eyes grow wide and his temper flare, and she knew he couldn’t be anywhere near the case, much less the victim himself. So she dragged him down an empty hallway, and into a women’s restroom to give him a piece of her mind.

“No,” He barks, “I know what you’re going to say, Pegs, and save it, I’m not letting this one go—“

“I was not going to say that,” She folds her arms across her chest and plants herself in front of the door. With a quick bend at her hips, she peeps under the stalls to make sure they were alone, “I have no intention of making you step away from this.”

He sighs, settling his tongue in his cheek, the way he does when he’s frustrated. “Good, then move—“

“No,” She plants a hand on his chest and shoves him back. He only moves about a foot, but it’s enough to get her point across. “This is too important to you, Steve, and I’m not going to let you ruin it for yourself because you’re so upset that you forget protocol.”

He closes his eyes and takes a breath. She’s right. He was so angry his hands were literally shaking. He couldn’t see even see straight. Taking a deep breath, he looks down at her. “I just—I can’t believe we got so fuckin’ close, Pegs. So close.”

“I know,” She offers in a comforting voice. It makes tears spring into his eyes.

“If Rumlow and Dugan had gotten there just a fuckin’ second sooner, they could have got the fucker. A moment sooner and I could have been telling him that the person who hurt him was going to prison, not that he almost hurt another guy.”

Peggy’s face changes slightly as she realized where the conversation had shifted—but she doesn’t let it show. She knows better than to do that—he was already upset enough, without her asking just what his relationship with James had grown into. Another time, she decides, when he isn’t defensive. “I know, Steve. Maybe…maybe you should go to him.”

The idea—somehow, it hadn’t dawned on him—settles in the front of his mind as Peggy suggests it. Suddenly, he couldn’t think about anything else—he wanted to see Bucky’s face and be certain there was no pain there, and if there was, console him until he felt better. Steve finds himself remembering the silken touch of Bucky’s hair against his fingers—they twitch at the memory.

She watches him intently as he slowly convinces himself, and offers, “I’ll be here, okay? Everything will be fine here if you go to him, Steve. I’ll call you if anything else becomes important, I promise.”

He nods and fishes his keys out of his pocket. She moves from her spot at the door, and Steve stops short of stepping out, to reach over and take the back of her head in his palm, and plant a kiss on the top of her head. “Who else has got me like you do, Pegs?”

She nods, but before she can respond, he’s gone. To the empty, fifth-floor hospital bathroom, she mutters, “No one does, Stevie.”

 

━━━━━━━━

 

Steve didn’t know Bucky’s number. Or his address. All he had was the knowledge that his apartment is somewhere not too far south of the precinct, and that’s where he decided to start. He could have looked in the report that has been on his desk for the last few days, but the idea didn’t strike him until he was wandering the streets of Brooklyn Heights, looking for an apartment he’d never been to, on a street of buildings that all looked the same.

He’s frantic, really, because he knows that Bucky even dreams about the attack, and if he'd seen the report on the news, then knowing it had almost happened to someone else would cause him an unbelievable amount of guilt. Steve remembers what he’d said to him at the bar, the words replaying in his head. He hopes, prays, really, that Bucky doesn’t blame himself.

One building had stood out to him, initially because the scent of fresh pastries came wafting through an open window. Then, because a woman, a tiny woman, had appeared near the window with a wine glass in her hand. She moved fluidly, hooking the stem of the glass with her pinky and using her other fingers to flip a vinyl over and then replacing it on the record player. By her wild red hair and icy glare, Steve just knew she had to be Bucky’s roommate.

So he’s hopped up the stoop and began knocking on the door.

She appears, swinging the door open and leaning against it. Her glare was something serious, making Steve swallow reflexively. “Who are you?”

“I’m Lieutenant Rogers with the NYPD. Does, uh, James Barnes life here?” He asks politely but is unable to remove the urgency from his voice.

Looking him up and down with judgmental green eyes, she frowns at him. “Did you really think coming here was a good idea, Lieutenant Rogers?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Look,” She cuts her eyes away from him and back in a seamless eye-roll, “Bucky needs some stability right now. He needs someone who isn’t going to disappear on him. Someone who isn’t going to run away when they satisfy their need to solve every case. And for some reason, I don’t get the impression that’s you.”

Steve immediately catches her jab and his stomach knots. He didn’t want to think about himself, or what this woman somehow knew about him. He wanted to be certain Bucky was alright. He grits his teeth together and asks, “Is he here?”

“I know your type.” She nods, commanding his attention with just her voice—if he weren’t so focused on Bucky, he may have been impressed. “Even before reading about you and your stint in DC. You’re looking for someone broken for you to fix, for some sick sense of self-satisfaction—“

“No, I’m not, what on Earth would make you think that?” He asks before he realizes, “Did—Does James think that about me?”

She scoffs at him, narrowing her eyes, “No, James likes you, probably because he’s traumatized and he’s looking for someone to save—“

“Hey,” Steve says, snapping the end of her sentence off, “I care about him. Last night, I stayed up as long as I could, just to make sure he was breathing in his sleep—that he didn’t wake up panicked because he didn’t remember where he was. I’m doing everything to catch the fucker that did this to him, alright? And I will—I will, I just—Right now I need to know that he’s alright.” She stands for a moment, seemingly regarding him, and after a deep sigh, calls over her shoulder for Bucky. Steve sighs, finally in relief, and thanks her. He doesn’t know why he feels the need to convince her, but he tries with, “I’ll take care of him. I promise.”

She leans in close and whispers. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you if you don’t.”


	14. Come as you are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello!
> 
> Here's a little upload for you dolls! I'm just getting back into the swing of things with uni & work, so I'm not finding as much time to dedicate to writing as I'd like. Hopefully as the semester settles down and my schedule becomes a little more stable, I'll be able to offer more consistent uploads.
> 
> I've got a few more projects in the works that will be coming up after this one, and if anyone has any ideas/requests for fics they'd like to see, drop me a comment! I'd love to hear from you lovelies!
> 
> Song of the Chapter/Title: Come as You Are - Nirvana  
> xx

 

_It had been cold that day, Steve remembers. The nation’s capital had been covered in six inches of snow, and the air that hung over the city’s landmarks was below freezing. It was cold, but nothing could top the frigidity he would encounter that very morning._

_The deed had been done; he’d pissed off the last person willing to take a chance on him, and he was going to have to deal with the repercussions. The walk to the Director’s office had been slow and painful, his joints and muscles seemed to be crying out at the looming consequences—but he had been summoned, and when the Director called, you came._

_Her assistant took a call and cleared her throat, telling Steve he could go in. So he did. He slapped on a solemn smile and dialed up his falsetto, “Director—“_

_“Shut up, Steven. Just Shut up.” She says, through a sigh._

_Steve takes one good look at her and can tell; he had fuckin’ done it now. Director Maria Hill stood in front of her desk, leaning on it gently, with her arms linked across her chest. Her hair is the way it always is, smoothed back into an immaculate coif, a shiny bang swooped behind her right ear._

_“Right,” Steve sighs as well. “So it’s done, then?”_

_Her jaw clicks, “Do not try to make this my fault, Steve.”_

_“It’s done, it’s decided?” He asks, “I don’t even get to present my case?”_

_“There is no case!” She snaps, but takes a breath, “You fucked up. Real bad, Steve. I can’t get you out of this unscathed—and frankly I don’t think I’d want to. I’m not your personal fixer, alright? My decision is final.”_

_The last bit gets to him. He closes his eyes to avoid saying anything any more irrational._

_“I applied for your transfer this morning, you’ll be going home, to New York.” She says, taking a dossier from her desk and extending it out to him. “You’ll be demoted from Captain to Sergeant. I couldn’t keep it off your record. For what it's worth, I did try.”_

_His lips tighten into a line, but he nods._

_“I don’t” She sighs, and Steve looks up in time to see her close her eyes and frown, “I don’t understand. How did you not see that this was completely inappropriate on your part?”_

_“You tell me, Maria.” He says quietly. “What—when did taking this job mean not being a human being, huh? When do we lose our empathy? I didn’t sign up for this shit—”_

_“I have done this for 15 years, Steven. You don’t lose your empathy, you learn to fucking control yourself.” She snaps. “Something you desperately need to do.”_

_He scoffs and she arches an eyebrow._

_She sighs, “Look, Steve, you’re done here. If you have any semblance of self-preservation, you’ll get your ass out of my office and salvage what's left of your career. Pack up your things. I want you gone by lunch.”_

 

 ***

 

Steve wakes up frightened, his heart beating out of his chest. Panicked eyes dance around his field of vision, but offer no clarity, just the contents of a dark bedroom—a tall dresser, a densely packed bookshelf, and five tall casement windows covered with sheer curtains, letting in the pale glow of street lamps. His fingers tense and curl into a mop of silken hair, and the heft of a body on his chest becomes evident.

 _Bucky_. When the name settles in his mind, it brings him the calmness he was so desperately in need of.

A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. Their reunion hadn’t been awkward or unpleasant at all. Natasha had let him in, all be it begrudgingly, and Bucky had emerged from his room. He was wearing sweatpants and a band t-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower he must’ve taken not too long before Steve had gotten there. Steve remembers the look on his face; he wouldn’t call it surprise, but somewhere between there and relief. The skin around his eyes was a little red, irritated from what Steve could only imagine was a fit of tears.

Looking down at him now, Steve can see the irritation has faded to a rosy pink. He slides his palm up to Bucky’s temple and brushes his thumb there—not intentionally, really, the mood had just struck him. The hair there was just as soft, but as he moved his hand out of Bucky’s hair, the brunette stirs, bringing his own hand up to replace Steve’s against his head. A small smile erupts on Bucky’s lips, making Steve chuckle.

The rumble of his chest displaces Bucky, who turns his head to look up at Steve. His eyes, a flurry of gray and green and blues making a color that Steve imagines great poets have infinite analogies for, look up at him with emotion behind them that he can’t exactly place. It wasn’t hostile—thank God it wasn’t hostile—but it was hesitant.

“Daisy isn’t between us.” Bucky says, propping himself up a tad, but Steve doesn’t let his hand slip out of his hair, “I kinda ended up on top of you. Sorry.”

Steve shrugs, “Don’t bother me, Buck.”

Bucky looks down, away from him Steve realizes, and licks his lips. “Right.”

Steve slowly removes his hand from Bucky’s person and also props himself up. Over Bucky’s shoulder, he can see the red fluorescent lights of a digital clock. 3:19 am. Steve clears his throat, “Does it bother you?”

Bucky looks up now, “No,” he says gently, but Steve can feel something more he isn’t saying—its thick in his voice, plastered in the knit of his brows.

“Are you uncomfortable with us?” Steve asks, but quickly adds, “Being this close—I mean.” It’s more Natasha’s words getting to him—some part of him still believes she may have told Bucky what she’d learned about him. His dream was enough to put a fear he’d long discarded—packed away somewhere dark and damp—right back into the front of his mind.

“I don’t know,” Bucky says. The words should scare Steve, but they don’t. He doesn’t know why, but the way he’d said it—voice certain and solid, like he’d thought about it and was alright with not knowing—prevented him from jumping to conclusions. “I uh, I know that I feel better when you’re around.”

“I’m glad,” Steve whispers. The smooth planes of Bucky’s face look almost grainy in the early morning street-light as if Steve were looking out at the gossamer filter of a film rather than a real person. It relaxes him. His blinks grow longer and more relaxed.

“I’m glad too,” Bucky says quietly. “I don’t know what that means for this,” He gestures weakly between the two of them, “But I don’t care right now. I can deal with that later. I can deal with you later. So if you’d just lay there and hold me, I’d appreciate it.”

With a little huff, Bucky lowers himself down to Steve’s chest again and replaces Steve’s hand back into his hair. Steve looks down at the curls on Bucky’s head, now blocking any view of his pale skin, and sighs contentedly. Lay there and hold him, he could indeed do.

 

 ***

 

  
They’d laid there until morning came. Bucky had fallen asleep again, but Steve laid there beneath him, one hand in his hair, the other is linked with his lean fingers. That is until his phone sounded off and Peggy’s name made his stomach sink to his toes. He did have to get up from this gloriously comfortable spot beneath James. He’d have to put on his suit and go back to work, back to handling the horrors of this sinful city—back to finding the man who’d hurt the precious person in his arms, and had tried to hurt another.

Peggy had suggested he come into the office, and he’d immediately refused. Bucky had just fallen back into solid sleep—but she tells him, quite clearly, that she didn’t intend to give him the impression she’d be doing the legwork on this case. Before he could retort, she added, _“Look, you won’t have to stay. Just get your ass down here, and take the garage entrance.”_

And so he’d gone. He’d slipped out from under Bucky, somehow managed not to wake him, and left a note on the nightstand. Her pointed ambiguity had left Steve puzzled, and on the drive to the precinct, he couldn’t help but wonder what it implied. She wanted him to come to the station, at six in the morning, long before the bulk of the bullpen arrived. It made him the worst kind of uneasy.

Once he arrived, he stalked into the building the way she’d asked him to, through the parking garage, which meant he entered the building on the slight catwalk that the administrative offices stood on. Looking down onto the bullpen, he could see that only a few officers who either took night shifts or came in early to catch up on paperwork were present. They seemed so sleep deprived that they hadn’t heard the giant metal door he’d come through when it opened.

Peggy however, had heard it and had appeared at the end of the hallway. She nods at him and he follows her into her office. It smelled like vanilla and spice, the way Peggy liked her spaces to smell nearing the holidays—her office, her car, and her apartment all had the same tell-tale cinnamon scent by mid-November.

“I understand you don’t want me here in any official capacity.” He says quietly, and she nods.

She folds her arms across her chest. “Look, Steve—“

“If this is about James, you can keep whatever you’re about to say, Pegs.” He says defensively, and she grits her teeth in response. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Don’t you think that’s a problem?” She snaps, but takes a breath and replaces the question, “I was going to say that I already told you that I wanted no part of this unless it’s all legit, and clean and by the book.”

“Yeah.” Steve crosses his arms across his chest.

“I understand that you care about him, but this is your responsibility, Steve. I know this is tricky, but you gotta know that I won’t stick my neck out for you if this shit goes sideways.”

He scoffs, “Pegs, I’m not askin’ ya to.”

Her lips press together in a line and she nods. “What are you doin’ with that kid, anyway? People talk, Steve. Some officers are goin’ around saying he’s an escort.”

“An escort?” Steve’s eyebrows go up, but anger immediately replaces his shock. “Who the fuck—why would they think that?”

She shrugs and blinks placidly. “Said they saw you pay him and send him off yesterday morning.”

“Fuckin’ hell—I gave him my _card_ , Pegs.” He runs a hand through his hair.

“I don’t doubt it, Steve,” She says, not too interested in his distress. “Look, I didn’t tell you to piss you off, or for you to go fuckin’ fight anyone. I’m tellin’ you because you’re getting too close, and people are noticing. If you want to keep helping this kid, you gotta put a little more distance between you two.”

“That’s not happening,” Steve says, without even a moment's hesitation. “He needs me, Peggy, I can’t just toss him to the side.”

“He needs you?” She looks up at him, a mix of humor and concern coating her eyes. “Steve, God, just _listen_ to yourself. He’d just a kid. He’s going to get attached to you, and for what? It’s not like your relationship can even go anywhere. You aren’t even gay—“

“Did you call me here just to tell me to stop talking to James?” He cuts her off, his teeth grit together.

She clucks her tongue against her teeth and hands him a case file. He glances over at it, but nothing stands out at him. He grunts and asks, “Couldn’t you have, I dunno, emailed me this?”

“Look at the responding officer's report.” She says, drearily.

He glances over it, and again, the information doesn’t seem out of place. “ _Peggy_ ,”

“Oh my god,” She groans, “This kid’s making you go soft—look at the timestamps.”

So he does, finally noting the discrepancy. The 9-1-1 call came in at 7:43. Officer Rumlow claims he responded at 7:37. He scoffs, “A typo?”

“No, Steve. Rumlow was on the scene first—multiple witnesses confirm it.”

“Yeah, Rumlow and Dugan responded.”

“Did you see Dugan at the crime scene yesterday?”

He tries to remember, but nothing comes up. He’d seen Rumlow, and literally dozens of other officers, but no Dugan. “No, I don’t think I did. There was a lot going on. I lost you in the first five minutes we got there.”

“He was passed out in the cruiser. Hungover.” She supplies. “Fury’s got him out on disciplinary leave now.”

Steve pales. “He’s drinking again.” The statement was unnecessary, but it came out anyway. Dugan had a problem with alcohol, but no one was brave enough to accost him about it. Steve looks down at the file again. “So…what were they doing at the Navy Yard? The 86th doesn’t patrol that far north—not that early.”

Peggy shrugs. “I don’t know. But something doesn’t feel right about this.”

“Do you think they’re covering for someone?” Steve asks, flipping through the rest of the pages.

“I don’t know.” She says sternly, “And I’m not doing any more digging, Steve. This is on you. Figure your shit out with the kid, and bring your ass back to work, so you can catch this fucker.”

 

 

 


	15. I wanna live in the hidden parts of your skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dolls...
> 
> Alas...the moment you've all probably been waiting for...the first bit of smut. This is your warning—there is a fair amount of sexual content towards the end of this chapter. If that's not your thing, I suggest holding out on reading the last bit!
> 
> I hope this little bit of fluffy stuff cancels out enough of the angst to keep you coming back for more! 
> 
> Song of the chapter/Chapter title comes from: Dip You in Honey by The Wombats.

* * *

 

James stands in Natasha’s doorway, watching the redhead shimmy into her jeans. Her bra strap is twisted, so he reaches a long arm out and smooths it down.

“Thanks,” She murmurs, grabbing her sweater and pulling it over her head. It’s a deep, almost black, dark blue velvet material; the stark comparison of her pale skin and the sweater looks ethereal, Bucky thinks, as if she were a sprite or some other feisty little creature.

She would always put a lot of work into her appearance when she was having trouble controlling a different part of her life. He suspects this time that  _he_  was the part she couldn’t govern and that he must be causing her a great deal of stress. She pats her pockets down and settles her purse on her shoulder, and almost as if reading his mind, she reaches out and gently takes his chin into her hand, “Stop thinking so hard, you’ll hurt yourself.”

He smiles, and she pecks a kiss on his nose.

“Y’sure you don’t want me to stay with you?” She pauses in the hallway, regarding him.

He glares at her. “Nat, you can’t put your life on hold for me. Go on.”

Something shifts in her eyes—dare he call it relief—as she asks, “Is Steve coming back?”

“Yeah, ‘said he would,” Buck says quietly. He watches her purse her lips and smooth a hand through her tamed curls. “Just say it, Nat.”

She sighs, her face full of a concern he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear it put into words. “I’m going to be honest with you, because I love you, and I’ll always be honest with you. I don’t think this is going to end well.”

And he was right, he wasn’t ready to hear it. Part of him knows that things mightn’t end well, _but_ , would it really hurt all that much to enjoy the road to ruin? He nods, and she frowns at his wordless concession.

“I’m not being mean, I’d tell you if I were being mean.” She says gently. “He rubs me the wrong way—I can’t explain it. I want to trust him, I do. He makes it easy—but that’s what bothers me.”

Bucky can’t help but cut his eyes at her, “You don’t trust anyone.”

“I trust  _you_ ,” She shoots back. “So if you trust him, I’ll try to do the same; but I don’t, at least not yet.”

“Right,” James frowns, “Go on, get. You’re going to be late for work again.”

She sighs, looking at him with big green eyes, but makes her way down the hallway.

With a solid click, the front door announces her exit. He exhales so hard, he falls forward and has to brace his palm against the doorframe. Using the walls to guide himself to the living room, he collapses on the couch; it was as if the escaped breath had been keeping him upright because as it went out, he felt all semblance of stability leave with it.

Thoughts race through his head faster than he could process them. He hated this,  _hated_  it, because Nat was always right about these sorts of things. She had been blessed with a gut that was never wrong. It had proved itself right time and time again since he’d met her—about _everything_ , from ex-lovers and friends, to jobs and life-decisions—she had exceptional foresight and no one could tell them otherwise. Which meant if she said she didn’t trust Steve, if he ‘rubbed her the wrong way’ as she had put it, it was probably for a reason.

Was he just something Steve felt obligated to take care of? The thought stings him, sending tears to his eyes and making his face feel all hot.

What did he even want from Steve? Where did he want things to go? They’d shared a bed, twice now, and it had felt overwhelmingly like coming home, and Bucky doesn’t even know the man’s middle name. His judgment must be fucked; he couldn’t be thinking right. What had happened to him—he pushes the memory back, because he couldn’t _possibly_ face that right now—must have depleted his resilience.

He was normally so capable of distancing himself from people, not  _needing_  people, that it had become a part of his personality, really. Anyone who really knew him, knew that he kept even his closest friends—Riley, Clint, Natasha, _even fuckin' Weasel_ —pretty far away from himself and his problems. He ruminates, alone and angry—that’s just how he deals with things— and his friends have grown well accustomed to it. But Steve? Steve made him feel like he’d been dealing with things wrong his whole life, because the warmth that man offered was akin to feeling the sun on your skin after a long, cold winter.

And he wants that. So, so badly, he wants that. He wants Steve, he realizes.

But of course, Bucky’s brain won’t let him hold onto that thought much longer than just a moment. He imagines Steve again, all tall and blond, standing next to a woman, just as blonde, just as pretty. It hurts, and not because of the jealousy that began brewing in Bucky’s heart, but rather because the image seemed so  _right_. It was as if the two of them had hopped out of a fuckin' magazine and into Bucky’s brain, just to mess with him.

He tries, initially just to spite his subconscious, to picture himself there instead of a pretty blonde woman. He doesn’t look quite right standing there with his tattoos and his long hair, but it feels right. He tries to picture the two of them the way they had been this morning, except he imagines Steve’s hand slipping out of his hair and down his back, rubbing slow circles there.

He hadn’t realized he’s been in the thick of a panic attack until the thought of Steve’s warm hands on him slows his breathing down considerably, and covers him with a thick sense of calm. The man wasn’t even _present_ and he could calm him down. Steve was the only one who could do that, Bucky was certain.

Then, he finds himself wondering if Steve felt the same way.

Strangely, a different question dawns on Bucky. Did he even like him? Or other  _men_ , for that matter?

Was Steve even gay? Or in  _any_  capacity attracted to men?

Nat hadn’t locked the front door when she’d left, probably assuming Bucky would do it. So when two chaste knocks aren’t answered in a few moments, Bucky watches the door slowly open. Steve is in the doorway, holding a brown paper bag in one hand, and a cup of coffee in the other.

“Why’s your door unlocked, Buck?” Steve asks, shutting it with his elbow. “I brought you some breakfast—“

Bucky doesn’t even let him finish. He needs to know, right now. “Steve, are you gay?”

━━━━━━━━

  
Steve pales. He can feel the blood draining out of his face. He stares down at the brunet on the couch. His features, sharp and masculine, somehow seem soft and vulnerable in the early morning light.

He stutters out, not unlike a teenage boy caught in a lie, “Am I— _what_? Uh—Buck, I—“

“Oh  _shit_ ,” Bucky whispers, turning his head away from Steve, briskly. Steve can tell it's in embarrassment, and quickly sets the breakfast he’d brought with him on the dining table.

“Bucky, listen—“

“No, no.” Bucky says gently, “I’m sorry—I’d just assumed that you were gay— _or bi_ , or— _whatever_ , fuckin’ something. Jesus, I’m sorry, I must’ve made you feel so uncomfortable, _fuck_ —“

Steve settles down in front of him, trying to take his hands into his own. “Buck, there’s no reason to apologize,”

“Yes, there is,” He chuckles, but it’s dry and forced. “Look, if you need to leave, I understand. Maybe you should. Maybe—maybe you should go?”

Steve doesn’t even hesitate this time, he slips his hand into Bucky’s hair and crushes his lips against his. It’s panicked and strange and off-putting for the first few seconds, but Steve relaxes against him, and after a moment, gently pulls away. After the sound of their lips audibly separating, the room, the building, the entire fucking street seems as though it had gone completely silent.

“I don’t know, Buck,” Steve whispers, finally. “I don’t know if I’m gay. I know that I like you, more than I probably should, but please, don’t make me go yet.”

Bucky looks at him, with wide eyes, and Steve, for what feels like the millionth time, gets lost in those giant pools.

“I don’t want to go, Buck.” He says, and Bucky nods.

Bucky is quiet for a long moment. His eyes were filled to the brim with something Steve didn’t understand. It was foreign, but somehow wistful, like a confession spoken in a language he didn’t speak but desperately wanted to. He watches those eyes darken. Was it with growing comfort? Lust? Or distaste? Had he come on too strong? Did he not accurately convey just how much this man had so suddenly but so strongly meant to him?

“Steve, I don’t think you really mean that,” Bucky says quietly, clicking his jaw shut after the words tumbled out.

Steve closes his eyes, but takes Bucky’s hand into his own, “Look at me, Buck, I’m not going anywhere. I won’t, not unless you send me away—okay? I want this.” and after a beat, “I want you.”

The words had come out without his acknowledgment, without his  _permission_ , but it didn’t make them any less true. For a split moment, he thinks he could take them back, just snatch them out of the air before Bucky could think about it hard enough to fully reject him. But, he _can’t,_ and not just because it was impossible to do so, but because he didn’t _want_ to. He couldn’t bring himself to take it back. He wanted Bucky to know that he wanted him, even if he didn’t know exactly how, or what that meant for him. He wanted Bucky to know that he wouldn’t be leaving, unless he makes him.

Bucky still hadn’t spoken for a long moment, and Steve, for the first time in their short relationship, wonders if it was awkward for him. Until he tips his head back and murmurs “ _Fuck_ ,” He chuckles, this time genuinely, and the sound puts an unconscious smile on Steve’s face. “ _God_. I should have known you were straight. Just look at you.”

Steve laughs now too, the smile on Bucky’s lips quickly easing his nerves. “Just look at me?” He repeats with a wide smile, “What’s so straight about me?”

“Just fuckin' look at you,” Bucky covers his reddening cheeks with his palm, “With your stupid hair, and your stupid smile.”

“My stupid hair, huh?” Steve’s chuckle again brings them closer, the shake of their bodies with good intentions and solid laughter puts them just a few inches apart now, even though Steve was still on the floor and Bucky on edge of the couch.

That close, Steve could see every inch of his face. A tattoo of a rose vine inks its way up the side of his throat and over his left ear. Freckles, the tiniest little flecks, mar the skin of his nose. His lashes are long and dark, and Steve thinks he’s never seen lashes like that on another man. His eyes flick down to Bucky’s lips, round and plump, and he feels something stir around in his gut. Butterflies, he realizes, like he was a fuckin' teenager again.

“Can I kiss you again, Bucky?” Steve finds himself whispering, and although the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind until his lips said it, it's suddenly all he wanted.

Bucky nods and leans forward, against Steve’s lips. This time, Steve thinks, it’s perfect. It’s soft and slow, the way Steve can only describe as perfect. Bucky kisses him back too, and their lips move against each other like lovers in a dance: sensual and paced, to music neither of them could hear but their bodies’ felt all the same. It changes in the blink of an eye, from something soft and safe to something teetering on the edge of primal. Teeth don’t shy away from skin, and neither of them notices their breath speeding up. Steve feels Bucky’s hand settle on his neck, and as the brunet leans forward, that hand slides up the back of Steve’s head and into his hair.

They fall back against the chair, and Steve’s hands, regrettably, have to get out of Bucky’s hair and snap down to the couch cushions to prevent him from crashing against the brunet’s still-bruised body. Again, their lips separate with an audibly wet sound, which forces them both to acknowledge the sexual tension that had suddenly bloomed between them.  
Steve couldn’t, though. It didn't feel right yet. The last thing he wanted to do was make Bucky uncomfortable.

He looks down at him, at pale skin covered in tattoos and a head of brown curls, and has to divert his thoughts from imagining the feel of Bucky’s skin under his fingertips. “We should—you should get something to eat, yeah?”

  
━━━━━━━━

  
Bucky drums his fingers on the counter. He wishes he could put his finger on what emotion was on the forefront of his brain just then, but things felt so strange that he couldn't even really grasp what was going on. His heart, however, was more straightforward; it felt full, a feeling he hadn't felt in quite a while.

He's somehow snapped up the good lieutenant's attention long enough to turn him into a man who makes pancakes. Steve had brought Bucky a bacon egg and cheese—'the classic New Yorker's breakfast' as Steve called it—but Bucky has been vegan for the last few years and couldn't eat it. So he'd insisted Bucky let him make him some breakfast. Pancakes, Steve decided, were the best option; they were filling, delicious, and Steve was certain that he couldn't fuck them up. 

So there he was, stood in Bucky's— _well, Nat's, really_ — kitchen, with flour down the front of his pants and batter on his brow. 

Bucky sat the island, where he had been told to sit, and watched the disaster that was Steve in the kitchen ensue. 

He wasn't sure how his life had just flipped upside down in the matter of what—a week? He hasn't thought about the assault since his episode at the parlor—which he realizes he should probably apologize to Clint for—and he refused to do it now. His mind, in a fit of defiance, wants to picture that night, but Bucky fixes his eyes on Steve instead.

There he is, boy-wonder in the fucking flesh. Blonde stubble has begun growing in on his jaw, little yellow spikes in the morning light. Bucky had given him a black t-shirt so he wouldn't get his dress-shirt dirty, and it was a little tight around the shoulders, but Bucky wouldn't complain. No, he wouldn't; if anything, he'd cross his legs and ignore his arousal. 

Just then, when Bucky's thoughts turned to what Steve's stubble might feel like on his thighs, the makeshift chef sets a plate of large pancakes in front of him. "Thank you," He says quietly, and counts them:  _one, two...four, five?_  "I can't eat all of these, Steve."

"Well, eat as many of them as you can." Steve smiles sweetly, but Bucky could tell that he sees straight through him—Steve knew that he didn't want to eat. 

After a moment of silence, Steve slides the maple syrup towards the plate, and Bucky asks, "Could you grab the peanut butter?"

The blond cocks an eyebrow, but nods, "Sure, where?"

"Upper, left of the stove."

A fresh jar of Jiffy appears in Bucky's line of sight, next to the giant plate he was going to have to make a dent in. With a twist of the wrist and a dip of his knife, he was prepared to spread a dollop of peanut butter onto his pancake. Steve watched, flabbergasted.

Curiosity clearly gets the best of him, because he stutters out, "Peanut butter—on pancakes?" 

Bucky clicks his tongue, he couldn't deny it, looking at syrup cover the peanut butter-coated pancakes, he felt his stomach grumble. "Yeah,"

"I've...never seen that before." 

Bucky tucks his hair back and shrugs, "It's just a thing my momma used to do for me and my sisters when we were little, as a treat when we behaved." He takes a bite, and it brings him back to his childhood—at least the good parts—and he can almost see his sisters, all long chocolate curls and innocent gray eyes. 

"That may be the strangest thing I've ever seen." Steve nods over at him, but he just contently takes another bite. "Do your sisters still do it to?"

"Yeah, Becca does." He takes another bite, and admits, "My other sister, Hannah, she uh, died when I was seventeen."

Steve's eyes widen, "Oh, I'm sorry, Buck,"

He waves a hand, "It's okay. It happened a long time ago. It's good memories, stuff like this," He gestures to the plate, "This is how I remember her. We would have these all the time."

Steve offers a solemn smile, and Bucky returns it. "You must have been a good kid then, to get treated often."

"Oh, no," Bucky's eyebrows furrow, "I was a little shit. My sisters, though, they were good."

Steve laughs, full and honest, and it makes Bucky smile. "No way!"

"Steve, buddy, look at me," Bucky cocks an eyebrow, "I'm covered in tattoos and haven't cut my hair in years. I'm the poster child for troubled children."

Steve shakes his head, "I don't buy it. You were a good kid."

"Oh yeah? What makes you think that?"

He shrugs. "I tend to get a good read on people, and you strike me as a good one. Probably helped old ladies cross the street, got cats out of trees, the works."

Bucky snorts. "I grew up in Flatbush, Steve."

"And I grew up in Crown Heights." He retorts with a smile. "Neither of fit the mold of our neighborhoods, huh?" 

And honestly, Bucky can't help but grin at that. 

  
━━━━━━━━

Once Bucky had finished his enormous breakfast—or at least as much of it as he could manage, which was only one whole pancake—Steve wasn't ready to go, just yet. He watched the satisfaction that comes with a full belly settle on Bucky's features. With how he was struggling to keep them open, the brunet's eyelids looked like they weighed a hundred pounds each.

Steve had suggested he have a seat on the couch, honestly quite scared he might have fallen off of the kitchen stool had he stayed there. After cleaning up the kitchen, Steve found himself on the couch as well, and as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Bucky had made his way over to Steve's chest and laid there. 

It made Steve feel hot—not physically, but mentally,  _sexually_. 

He had never even looked at another man long enough to feel attraction, but looking down at Bucky he tries to think about something,  _anything_ ,  to redirect the blood that was heading south.

Just then, Bucky murmurs something that sounds curiously like _'Fuck,'_ against Steve's neck. His hand sleepily travels from where it had been sitting on Steve's stomach, up to his chest, just below his head. Steve swallows.  _Puppies. No, dead puppies. Communism._  And it works until he realizes that Bucky's hips are rutting forward against his thigh, and Steve could feel the clear heft of an erection. 

It stills him, because he  _instantly_  grew hard, as well. 

Bucky moves in his sleep again, seemingly trying to get closer to Steve, even though he was already on top of him. He murmurs something akin to S _t_ eve, but it sounds more like  _Steeb_ , which makes Steve laugh. The rattling startles Bucky, drawing him from the lull of sleep. 

"Hi." He murmurs gently and stretches against Steve's long body. 

"Hi." Steve whispers, and gasps gently when Bucky's hand lands on his lower stomach. Just a few inches lower and he'd have landed on a handful of cock.

"Mhm," Bucky mumbles. Steve would like to think that they know the each other on a level that neither of them could explain just yet—probably something cliche, like having been lovers in another lifetime, he imagines—and it leads him to think that the glint in Bucky's eyes was more than just sleep. Deep below the surface, he sees it, painted on thick— _arousal_.

"I keep dreaming of you." Bucky whispers so quietly Steve barely hears it. Buck lifts a lean finger and traces the stubble of his jaw, "You can't be real."

"I am," Steve whispers.  _He had dreamt of him and gotten aroused_. He had dreamt of _him_ and gotten aroused. Steve swallows. "Good dream, then?"

"Mhm." Bucky nods and lets his hand drop down to Steve's stomach again—this time definitely grazing his erection. Steve doesn't shirk away, even though he initially wanted to, because Bucky's eyes flit up to him and give him so much lust that his mouth goes dry. "Definitely a good dream."

Steve slowly slips his fingers in Bucky's hair, leading him close, and Bucky initiates a kiss. His hand slides over Steve's sweatpants, settling on the sizable imprint there.

"Steve?" Bucky murmurs against his lips.

"Yes?"

"Could you..." He whispers, bucking his hips up gently, like he'd done in his sleep, "Touch me?"

“You gotta be sure, Buck,” Steve whispers, tightening his hold on Bucky’s hair. It wasn’t painful, but it was enough to signal to Bucky that Steve was grappling with his self-restraint just as much as he was. He could just say yes, it could be so easy, Steve knows, but he wants to be certain. He wants to do it right. Bucky's grip through Steve's pants tightens, so he bites out the rest, “Real fuckin’ sure, baby, because we can’t go back from this.”

“I’m sure, Steve.” Bucky bucks his hips up again, causing  Steve to send his hand down to Buck's pelvis, to keep him from falling off of him. “ _Fuck_ , just fuckin’ touch me, man.”

Steve shifts a little, to sit up a bit more—because he knew the implications of Bucky's words. He'd said as much in the bar—he didn't want people looking at something _broken_. The languid sounds coming from him makes Steve completely certain of his arousal, so Steve sends his fingers under his waistband, and the brunet gasps at the cold touch. Steve stalls a little, but Bucky just puts his hand on top of his, guiding them into his underwear as well. They were boxer briefs; Steve could feel the spandex-y material on the back of his hand, but he could also feel smooth skin until a thatch of soft hair met his fingertips.

“Keep going,” Bucky whines, panting in Steve’s ear. He pushes Steve’s hand further down, and Steve’s entire face goes red when he reaches his destination.

He’d never touched another man’s junk, but he was pretty intimately familiar with the anatomy there, and well, he can’t help but let his jaw click open as he wraps his fingers around James.

Bucky’s breath hitches in his throat and he whispers Steve’s name; it’s all the motivation Steve needs to slide his hand to the tip and rub his thumb near the slit. Slick coats his thumb, and he spreads it around the head, which makes Bucky squirm.

“Fuck, Bucky, you feel good,” Steve whispers. He doesn’t know where the words came from— and he hopes they don’t sound weird or awkward to Bucky’s seasoned ears—but he meant it. Bucky’s skin, hot and perfect, felt wonderful under his fingers.

Another pump of his fist up and down makes Bucky send his head back with a groan. Steve’s eyes flit up to Bucky’s face, and he swears, he’s never seen anything quite as perfect. Lashes, impossibly long, flutter above eyes that have been reduced to a thin ring of gray around impossibly wide pupils. His cheeks are flushed a perfect pink, his fat bottom lip is reddening from being caught between his teeth. That heat, slightly rosy, traveled down his chest, under his white shirt, under tattoos and fading bruises. 

Bucky moves his hand around the end table, reaching for something in the drawer, but Steve’s eyes were focused on those lips. When Bucky finds what he’d been groping for, Steve only gives him a moment before he’dsnapped up his lips to his own, and had begun moving the hand in his pants faster. Bucky kisses him back, but when Steve’s hand picks up speed, his lips fall open and a broken sound tumbles out.

“Steve, here,” Bucky murmurs, snapping the top off of a little purple bottle.  _Lube_ , Steve realizes, and if it were possible, his face turns redder.

“Oh—I’ve never— _um_ , used that stuff before.” Steve whispers, loosening his grip in Bucky’s pants.

“I’ll show you,” Bucky whispers, breathless, and squeezes a few drops of the lubricant onto his fingers. His hand brushes Steve’s, and as their fingers touch, the slick spreads between them. “Nn-now touch me,  _here_.”

Bucky’s fingers lead Steves lower, and the thought alone, much less the  _feeling_  of actually doing it, makes Steve start stuttering. Bucky whines again, and lets his head roll back against Steve’s shoulder once he’s set Steve’s fingers where he wanted them.

“Does it feel good?” Steve questions, in part because he knew Bucky would like the sound of his voice, but also in part because he _genuinely_ hadn’t a clue if he were doing it right. He circles his pointer finger around the delicate opening, but as all of his fingers are wet, he decides to utilize his middle finger as well.

“Fuck, yes,” Bucky moans, and the desperation in his voice makes Steve dip his head and kiss the tattoos on his neck. “Put it in me, Stevie, please?”

Steve was _beet_ _red_ now, he was quite certain of it.

He’d never had any exceptionally vocal lovers. And he’d clearly never had any vocal  _male_  lovers, either, so this was completely new to him. Bucky’s body had contorted so he was essentially on Steve’s lap. The blond had one hand down his pants, and the other on the brunets side to keep him positioned upwards. If it were up to Bucky and Steve hadn’t been holding him up, Steve thinks the brunet would have melted into a puddle on the couch.

Gently, Steve offers a finger, his middle finger, and Bucky murmurs little praises when it finally manages past the little bundle of nerves between his legs. “Mmm.” Bucky licks his lips and then takes Steve’s lips against his own, “Feels so good, Stevie.”

 _Stevie_. He liked the way it sounded in Bucky’s breathless voice. Steve felt himself grow harder and harder at the feel of Bucky around his finger.

The brunet doesn’t even need to fix the words on his lips, Steve could somehow just sense what his lover needed next. Steve sends his right hand down to hold Bucky’s legs open for a moment, before sending it down to join his left.

Bucky moans again, and the salacious tone of it all makes Steve bite his lip. Gathering some of the lube from his left hand, he takes Bucky’s shaft into is palm, while working his left hand in and out of his body. 

It felt too right, too _perfect_ for Steve to stop, even though he could see that Bucky was getting closer to climax. Part of him wanted to hold back, edge him on a just a little bit longer, but another much more impatient part of him wanted to see the face he'd make, and hear his name in Bucky's breathy voice again. And so he kept going.

Bucky, too, felt it coming, but the most he could do was send a hand down to grip Steve's wrist—although, he wasn't ready to stop him, so it just sat there, moving up and down in time with Steve's. 

Then, it happens, and Steve couldn't believe he found the male orgasm so  _beautiful._ For his entire life, he hadn't given the male form a second glance. Women, he'd learned to play their bodies like a fiddle; he'd never even imagined he'd witness the same satisfaction he got from pleasing a woman, from pleasing a man.  _H_ _ow naive he'd been,_ because as Bucky's jaw drops and he whispers a broken little  _'Steve'_ , it makes his entire world come crashing down.

The brunet's body convulses in Steve's arms, around Steve's finger, and in Steve's palm. He'd never seen anything like it before, and it satisfied him in a way he hadn't anticipated.

He didn't know when he'd dipped his head down and started whispering against Bucky's throat, but he did, "You did so good, Buck. So good." Bucky reaches his hand into Steve's pants, but Steve stops him, "No, no, it's okay. This is for you."

There was a box of tissues on the end table. Bucky lifts a heavy arm that way to retrieve a few sheets, and murmurs out, "M'sorry. It got all over you." 

Steve looks down at where Bucky had begun wiping his hands. "S'fine, Buck," He nuzzles his face into Bucky's neck, "You feel better?"

Bucky slowly smiles, "Yeah. Yeah, I feel better."

Steve watches his lids grow heavy again, and after cleaning him up a bit more, lets him settle against his chest again. His breaths draw out in length, and Steve watches sleep come to him. He looks thoroughly content with himself, satisfied and lost in the hush of sleep. 

 


End file.
